


(prom ihe Piclure iy Sluart Ne-«loi\. 1820.) 



L/ 7 




KETCH ]BO OK 



C^T/o; 




C--^C:c,.^yC^n^ \-e^^M.^07 



ARTIST'S EDITION. 



ILLUSTRATED W I T II ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ENGRAV- 
INGS ON WOOD, KKO.M OKKHNAL DESIGNS. 



" I have no wife nor children, good or bad. to jirovidc lor. A incre .';i)i(t:itor of <pthei- men's 
fortunes and adventures, and how ttuy ]ilay their parts ; whieli UKthiniws ai e diversely presented 
unto uie, as from a conimon theatre or M-ejie." — BirRTON. 



N"EW YORK: 
G. P. PUT X AM, 44 1 BROADWAY. 

II DC CC I. XI V. 



^"o 






K 



\^^^ 



Kntered arrdnUiiir tn Act of Consress. in tho year lsfi'5. 
By a. V. PUTNAM. 
In the (It'i-k's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern Pistric 

of \e\v York. 



A. AI.VOBn. EI-ErTROTYrE", AXO PHIN'TKr.. 



PUBLISIIEirS NOTICE. 



Ix this special presentation of that work of Washingtox Iuvixo which 
has continued, in both hemispheres, to be peculiarly the favorite, the ])nb- 
lisher has aimed at a liigh standard of excellence. 

The names of the artists Avho liave graced the volume with tlieir pencils, 
and the sketches they have contributed, will speak tor tlicmselves. and need 
no comment from the publisher. 

Those only, liowever, who have actually tried the experiment can fully 
appreciate the ditiicult and expensive task of producing a volume of this 
kind that shall be thoroughly satisfactory to tiie artists as well as to the 
public. Suttice it to say. that unusual care has been taken, and unusual 
cost incurred, as regards tlie designs, the engraving, the paper, and the 
printing. 

An intelligent and discriminating taste for tliis m;nmer of illustration, and 
for general excellence in the art of book-making, is rapidly increasing in 
our community, even in this period of national discipline; and the pub- 
lisher of this volume has endeavored to place it a step in advance, to meet 
the purer and .severer requirements of p(^pular dennind. 

The illustrations are engraved from original designs by many of our most 
eminent artists who have taken a warm interest in this experiment. 

The paper has been made for this special purpose witli ])eculiar care, and 
from the choicest materials ; and the printing, by Mr. Alvord, tells its own 
story to the adept and to the amateur. The binding, by Mi-. Matthews, 
will be appreciated by discriminating lovers of choice books. 

441 BiiOADWAY. New Yoi;k, Sc/'t., 1SG3. 



/" 



n f ?f ''j 



M f / 1 < T i a'I ^' III- f^l 0~^ m^^m f 





'^i^r>J^ 



fxam (L*)iiain;il pcsiaus. 

EX(iR.VVKI) OX WOOD I?V MESSRS. RICHARDSON A COX. 



PORTR.^rr OK THE AUTHOR (KROM STIART XKWTOX) K.\(iRAVKI> Y.\ 1I.\I.L. 



6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 
23. 



TITLE 

HEADING TO PREFACE .... 

ABBOTSFORD 

ILLUMINATED HALF-TITLE 

HEADING TO AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OK HIMSELF 

VIEW FROM "A PIER-HEAD," N. Y. 

"SHIPS, SHIPS" 

PIECES OF WRECK 

THE CAPTAIN'S STORY .... 

COAST OF WALES 

EOSCOE 

BORDERS "TO MY BOOKS" 
LOVE GUARDING THE HARP 

THE COTTAGE 

CUPIDS AND RINGS 

RIP VAN WINKLE ASLEEP .... 

THE C.VTSKILLS 

RIP VAN WINKLE AND THE CHILDREN* 
DAME VAN WINKLE'S LECTURE . 
VILLAGE POLITICIANS .... 

RIP AND THE DOG 

EIP AND THE EISIN(; GENERATION . 
CATSKILL FALLS 



ARTIST. 


PAGE 


Wm. T. 1!|i IHRUS 


Titk-. -^ 


Herrk K 


9^ 


BF,.\ri,iF.i . 


11 


F.TVNCK 


. 18 


Herrick 


19' ' 


P.^RSONS 


20'^ 




23^- 




26^ 


M'Lenan 


28^ 


Parsons 


30"^ 


Heerkk . 


33^" 


F. A. ClUPMAN 


41^ 


Hoppix . 


42'/ 


Wm. Hart 


. oO^ 


Hdppin' 


52"^ 




5.>/ 


Parsons . 


:,^ 


Dari.ev 


. 57^ 



,^^ 



60 

6i-" 

69V^ 
76 

78 



LIST OF ILLUSTKATIO.XS. 



24. CATSKILL LAKIC ..... 

25. FATHKIt Tl.MK 

26. OLD EULOPE MEAsnUNd YUUNG AMKIilCA 

27. INFANT lIERCULE^f .... 

28. BOW AND PEN 

29. ENGLISH ItUKAL SCENE 

30. EN(iLISH PAKE SCENEKY 
3L COTTAGE 

32. GOING TO CHUIICH 

33. ENGLISH COTTAGE LIFE 
3i. WOUNDED DOVE 

35. INITIAL 

36. THE MASQUEIiADE 

37. BORDEK— MEDALLION OF EMMETT 

38. THE SCISSORS 

39. INITIAL 

4.0. READING ROOM, BRITISH MUSEUM . 

41. THE PLAGIARIST 

42. WINDSOR .... . . 

43. ROUND TOWER, WINDSOR CASTLK 

44. GARDEN SCENE, WINDSOR 

45. KING JAMES AS A PRISONER 

46. TERRACE VIEW, WINDSOR CASTLE . 

47. INTERIOR OF AN ENGLISH COUNTRY CHURCH 

48. c:OACH OF THE WEALTHY CITIZEN . 

49. THE OLD MILL .... 

50. COUNTRY CHURCH .... 

51. THE WIDOW AND HER SON . 

52. INITIAL 

53. INITIAL 

54. FALSTAFF 

55. SHAKSPEARK.VN (;01;lKT iiv.„„ [.rinti 

56. INITIAI 

57. THE AUTHOR IX WKST.MINSTEU ABBEY 

58. IMTIAI 

50. CHILDREN IN THE CHURCHY'ARI) 

60. -Oil THE GR-WE! THE GRAVE!" iiVo,,, da-: 





.A.KTIS-1'. 


I'AGL 




W.M. 11 AIM 


79,. 




Hori'iN 


80 - 

81 ' 
85' 

. 92-' 




VV.\i. Haut 


93^ 
96 

97 




LUMLKY 


. 101 




Bellows 


io;i 




Hoppix 


. 104' 




Clinton . 


104^' 




Hoi-PiN 


110 ■ 




Hennessy 


HI 




IIOPPIN 


112' 




Clinton . 


112 




Herricu 


114' 




HoPI'lN 


I'iO 




W.M. Haut . 


. 122 
124 




Lu.mley 


. 132- 




Ehningeu 


134"^ 




Beaulieu 


. 140 


t'H 


Clinton . 


1411^ 




Hoi'PiN 


145*^ 




W.M. Haut 


149' 




Bellows 


. 152 ■ 




HlNTINGTON 


157 




Clinton 


. IGO 
163 




C. L. F.LL^OTT 


. 165 




. G. White 


174 




Clinton 


. 17S 




Edwin Wmn; . 


181 




Clinton 


. 192 




Bkli.ows 


195 


.1. 11. nui] 


. \V-M. Haut . 


20;; 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



6L INITIAL 

62. THE INN KITCHEN— THK STOUY ^ . 

63. CASTLE OF THE ODENWALI) 
64 THE SPECTRE BRIDEOKOOM 

65. INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

66. POET'S CORNER, '■ '■ . . 

67. ENGLISH WINTER SCENE .... 

68. THE WAITS 

69. INITIAL 

70. THE OLD BLTEKR ..... 

71. INITIAL 

72. THE MANOIi HOlsE 

73. INITIAL 

74. THE CHILDREN SURPRISED 

75. THE PARSON AND SEXTON .... 

76. "ON OLR WAY HOMEWARD' 

77. TAIL PIECE ...... 

78. INITIAL 

79. "CAPLT APRI DEFERO" .... 

80. THE BOAR'S HEAD ..... 

81. THE BROWN BOWL ..... 

82. INITIAL 

83. TAIL PIECE ... . . 

84. INITIAL 

85. VIGNETTE 

86. THE COCKNEY'S PIC NIC .... 

87. TAIL PIECE 

88. SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTH PEACE . 

89. STRATFORD CHI:RCH 

90. SHAKSPEARE'S TOMB ... 

91. "HARK, HARK! THE LARK" . . . . 

92. VIEW OF STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

93. "UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE" 

94. CHARLECOT MANOR .... 

95. HALL AT CHARLECOT 

96. TOMB OF SIR THOMAS LUCY 

97. SHAKSPEARE BEFORE SIR THOS. LUCY [from Ha 



Ann ST. 


PAGE 


Clinton 


. 207 ■' 


(iEo.'H. Hai.i, . 


209' 


W.M. IlAllT' . 


. 211^ 


< )ERTK1,I. . 


221^ 


.r. M. Will . 


. 233 ' 




235' 


Casilkah 


. 246 '-" 


Ct. L. Bkown 


251-^ 


MrDoNoi(;ii 


254 '' 


HOPPIN . 


259 


F. A. ('iiAr\L\N 


. 263'" 


G. L. Bhown 


267^ 


F. A. ClIAVMAN 


. 278'' 


Guv 


279'-'' 


Daklkv 


285 


McEntkk 


291 


F. \. Chapman 


296'" 




297-" 




. 300 


HopiMN . 


301 


F. A. ClIAP.VIAN- 


. 305 




315 


'■ 


. 322 


" 


323^ 


" 


. 331 "' 


.1. G. Brot\x 


. 335 


Chapman 


342 


HEP.KirK 


. .343' 


COLMAN . 


349 '^ 


McDoNorcii. 


351 


F. \. Chapman . 


357 


Wm. Hap.t 


. 358 


F. \. Chai'Man . 


360 


CoLMAN 


361 


.T. M. Will 


363 




365 


Mr I)on<)ii;h 


367 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



98. TAILPIECE 

99. INITIAL 

100. FOREST SCENE 

101. PURITANS (■«. INDIANS .... 

102. INITIAL 

103. DEATH OF K1N(} PHILIP .... 

104. CAPTURE OF CANONCHET 

105. INITIAL— JOHN BI:LL .... 

106. THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

107. THE FUNERAL 

108. INITIAL— THE ANGLER 

109. WATERFALL 

no. THE LUNCH 

111. TROUT STREAM 

112. OLD MILL 

113. VIEW IN SLEEPY HOLLOW Ifromsketd, by .7. h. liu 

114. ICHABOD'S EVENING WALK . 

115. KATRINA AT THE WHEEL 

116. SUNNY SIDE 

117. ICHABOD AND KATRINA 

118. THE MESSENGER 

119. THE TAPPAN ZEE .... 

120. CHURCH AT SLEEPY HOLLOW [from sk.t.l.i.y .1 H 

121. THE OLD BRIDGE 

122. BEOM BONES AND ICHABOD 

123. VIGNETTE-POSTSCRIPT 



AHTIST. 


PAGK 


( HAP.MAN 


370 


Clinton 


. 371 


Casilear . 


381 


Daklky 


. 383 


F. A. CHAl'.MAN . 


386 




. 401 


Dari.ev . 


406 


Ciiap.man 


408 


Col.man 


. 423' 


H. P. GUAY 


432 ■ 


Ciiai'man 


. 435 


Casilbar . 


437 


SllATTUCK 


. 439 


McEntke 


ur 


W.M. Hart 


■ 445 


M'm. Hart 


449-^ 


Oertem, 


. 453 


Darley . 


460 ' 


W.M. Hart 


. 462^'' 


HlTNTINtiTON 

Hoppin 


468 ■^ 
47$ 


Kensett 


47^ 


W.M. Hart 


. 481 


T. .\. RiciiARr>>< . 


487 


Lei:tze 


. 489 


Herrick . 


493 




J^/W— 









The following papers^, witli tAvo excep- 
tions, ^vere written in England, and formed 
l)iit part of an intended series for wliich I 
liad made notes and memoi'andums. Be- 
fore I eoiild mature a })lan, ]iOA\ever, oir- 
>f cumstances eom2:)elled me to send them 

piecemeal to the United States, where they were j)ii1j- 
lished from time to time in portions or nnmhers. It 
was not my intention to publish them in England, l)eing 
conscious that much of their contents could be interest- 
ing only to American readers, and, in truth, l)eing de- 
terred l)y the severity with which American ]»r<)(luctions 
had Ijeen treated l)y the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume liad aj)- 
peared in this occasional manner, tliey began to lind 
tlieir wa\' across the Atlantic, and to l)e inserted, \\itli 



IQ PREFACE. 

many kind eucominms, in the London Litei'aiy Gazette. 
It Avas said, also, tliat a London l)ookseller intended to 
puljlisli tlieni in a collective form. I determined, there- 
fore, to hiing them forward myself, that they might at 
least have the henefit of my snperintendence and revision. 
I accordingly took the printed nnnd)ers whicli I had 
received from the United States, to Mr. John jNInrray, 
the eminent publisher, fi'oni whom I liad already re- 
ceived friendly attentions, and left them with him for 
examination, informing him that should he be inclined 
to bring them before the public, I had materials enough 
on hand for a second volume. Several days having 
elapsed without any communication fi'om Mr. Murray, I 
addressed a note to liim, in which I construed his silence 
into a tacit I'ejection of my work, and l)egged that the 
nimil)ers I liad left witli him might Ije returned to me. 
The folh>wing Avas his reply : 

My deak Sih, 

I entreat yon to beheve that I feel truly obliged by your kind 
intentions towards me, and that I entertain the'most unfeigned 
respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely 
tilled with workpeople at this time, and 1 have only an office to 
transact business in ; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I 
should liave done myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your 
pi-esent work, it is only becalise I do not see that sco]ie in tlie 
nature of it which would enable me to make those satisfactory 
accounts between ns, without which I renlh' feel no satisfaction 



PREFACE. 



li 



in engaging — hnt 1 will do all I enn to jn'oiaotc tlicii- circnla- 
tion, and shall be most ready to attend to any fntniv plan of 
yours. 

With mueh regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your flxithful servant, 

JOHN MUERAY. 

This was disliearteidiig, and iiiio-lit liave deterred me 
from an}^ further prosecution of the matter, liad tlie 
(question of republication in Great Britain rested entire- 
ly with me ; 1 )ut I apprehended tlie appearance of a 
spurious edition. I no^v thought of Mr. Archibald Con- 
sta1)le as publisher, having l)een treated l)y him with 
much hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh ; but first 







I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then 
Mr.) Scott, beino^ encouragfed to do so b\' tlie cordial 



22 i'KEFACK. 

reception I bad experienced from liim at Al)botsford a 
few years previously, and )>y the fevorable opinion lie 
had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I ac- 
cordingly sent him the printed nnml)ers of the Sketch 
Book in a parcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to 
him, hinting that since I. had had the pleasure of par- 
taking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in 
my affairs which made the successful exercise of my pen 
all-important to me; I begged him, therefore, to look 
over the literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, if 
he thought tliey would bear European republication, to 
ascertain whetlier Mr. C(^nstable would be inclined to be 
the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to 
Scott's address in Edinburgh ; the letter went l)y mail to 
his residence in the country. By the very first post I 
received a reply, l)efore he had seen my work. 

" I was down at Kelso," said he, " Avhen yoiu' letter 
reached Abl:)otsfoi'd. I am now on my way to town, 
and will converse with Constalde, and do all in my 
power to forward your views — I assure you nothing will 
give me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, al)Out a reverse of fortune had 
struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that 
practical and efficient good Avill which l)elonged to his 
nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me. A 
weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about 
to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most 



PKKFACPl 



18 



respectal)le talents, and amply furnislied \\itli all the 
necessary information. The apj^ointment of the editor, 
for which ample funds were provided, would Ije five 
hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable 
prospect of further advantages. This situation, being 
apparently at his disposal, he fi-ankly offered to me. 
The work, however, he intimated, ^vas to have somewhat 
of a political bearing, and he expressed an apprehension 
that the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. 
" Yet I risk tlie question," added he, " because I know 
no man so well qualified for this important task, and 
perhaps because it will necessarily bring you to Edin- 
l)urgh. If my proposal does not suit, you need only 
keep the matter secret and there is no harm done. 
'And for my love I i^ray you wrong me not.' If on 
the contrary you think it could be made to suit you, let 
me know as soon as possible, addressing Castle-street, 
Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinljurgh, he adds, " I 
am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketcli 
Book. It is positively l^eautiful, and increases my de- 
sire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difiiculties 
there always are in managing such a matter, especially 
at the outset ; but we will obviate them as much as we 
possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my re- 
ply, which underwent some modifications in the copy 
sent. 



14 



j'K?:fa('e. 



" I cannot express \nny mucli 1 am gratified l)y yonr 
letter. I had 1)egnn to feel as if I had taken an iinAvar- 
rantal)le liberty; l)iit, sonielio\v^ or other, there is a geni- 
al sunshine about you that ^varnis every creeping thing 
into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both 
surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher 
opinion of my talents than I have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself 
peculiarly unfitted for the situation oftered to me, not 
merely by my political ojiinions, luit l)y the very consti- 
tution and habits of my mind. " My whole course of 
life," I observed, " has been desultory, and I am unfitted 
for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated 
labor of l)ody or mind. I have no cc^mmand of my 
talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings 
of my mind as I would those of a weather-cock. Prac- 
tice and training may bring me more into rule ; but at 
present I am as useless for regular service as one of my 
own country Indians, or a Don Cossack. 

"I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have 
begun ; writing when I can, not when I would. I shall 
occasionally shift my residence and write whatever is 
suggested by ol)jects before me, or whatever rises in my 
imagination ; and hope to write l)etter and more copi. 
ously by and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, 1 )ut I kno^v no 1 )etter way 
of answering your proposal than hj showing what a 
very good-for-nothing kind of lieino- I am. Should Mr. 



PREFACE. 



15 



Constable feel inclined to make a Ijargain for tlie wares 
I have on hand, lie will encourage nie to furtlier enter- 
prise; and it will be something like trading witli a 
gipsy for tlie fruits of his pi'owlings, who ma}' at one 
time have nothing 1)ut a wooden bowl to offer, and at 
another time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, l)ut not surprise, at 
my declining what might have proved a troublesome 
duty. He then recurred to the original subject of our 
correspondence; entered into a detail of the various 
terms upon which arrangements were made between 
authors and booksellers, that I might take my choice ; 
exj)ressing the most encouraging conhdence of the suc- 
cess of my woi'k, and of previous works which I had 
produced in America. " I did no more," added he, 
"than open the trenches with Constal)le; l)ut I am sure 
if you will take the troulde to Avrite to him, you ^vill 
hud him disposed to treat your overtures with every 
degree of attention. Or, if you think it of consequence 
in the first place to see me, I shall l)e in London in 
the course of a month, and whatever my experience can 
command is most heartily at your command. But 1 
can add little to what I have said a1)ove, except my 
earnest i-ecommendation to Constalde to entei' into the 
negotiation."* 

Before the ]'eceii)t of this most obliging letter, how- 

* T rannot avoid subjoinin.a' in a note a sufL-eediii.u' iiara.ui'aiili of Suott's leKcr. 
wliidi. tiiou.uii it does not relate to the main snlijeet ot'oin- eorrespondenee. was too 



16 



PEEFACE. 



ever, I liad detemiined to look to no leading bookseller 
for a launeli, l)iit to tlll■()^v my A\X)rk lietbre tlie jmblic at 
my own risk, and let it sink or SAvini according to its 
merits. I wrote to that etlect to Scott, and soon re- 
ceived a rej^ly: 

" I observe witli pleasnre tliat you are going to come 
fortli in Britain. It is certainly not tlie very 1)est way 
to puljlisli one's own accompt ; for tlie l)ooksellers set 
tlieir face against tlie circulation of sucli works as do 
not pay an amazing toll to tlieniselves. But tliey liave 
lost tke art of altogether damming up tlie I'oad in such 
cases between the author and the pul)lic, which they 
were once able to do as eifectually as Diabolus in John 
Bunyan's Holy War closed up the w^indows of my Lord 
Understanding's mansion. I am sure of one thing, that 
you have only to be kiiow^n to the British public to Tje 
admired l)y them, and I would not say so unless I really 
was of that opinion. 

" If you ever see a witty but rather local publication 
called Blackwood's Edinl)urgli Magazine, you will find 

characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I Lad sent Miss Sojjhia Scott 
small duodecimo American editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh 
in quarto volumes ; showing the '• nigromancy " of the American press, by which a 
quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott observes: '• In my hurry, I have 
not thanked you in Sophia's name for the kind attention Avliich furnished her with 
the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have 
made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than she would ever other- 
wise have learned ; for I had taken special care they should never see any of those 
things during their earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the 
firmament with a feather like a maypole and indenting the pavement with a sword 
like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dra- 
ooons." 



PREFACE. 



17 



some notice of ^'oiir works in tlie last nuniher: the 
author is a friend of mine, to ^vhonl I liave introduced 
you in your literary capacit} . His name is Lockhart, a 
young man of very considerable talent, and anIio will 
soon l)e intimately connected Avitli my family. My 
faithful friend Knickerbocker is to l)e next examined 
and illustrated. Constable was extremely willino- to 
enter into consideration of a treaty for your Avorks, l)ut 
I tV)resee ^vill l)e still moi'e so Avhen 



Your name is up, and uiay 140 
From Toledo to Madrid. 



-And that ^vill soon l)e the case. I trust to be 



m 



London al)Out the middle of the month, and j)roniise 
myself great pleasure in once again shaking yc)u by the 
hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to 
press in London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by 
a bookseller unkno^vn to fame, and ^vdtllout any of the 
usual arts l)y which a wt)rk is trumpeted into notice. 
Still some attention had l)een called to it l>y the ex- 
tracts "w^hich had previously a})i)eared in the Literary 
Gazette, and by the kind word spoken by the editor of 
that periodical, and it ^s'as getting into fair circulation, 
when my worthy bookseller failed l)efore the first 
month was over, and the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to 
him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more 



XS PREFACE. 

propitious than Hercules, lie put his own shoulder 
to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, 
Murray was quickly induced to undertake the future 
publication of the work which he had previously de- 
clined. A fui'ther edition of the first volume was struck 
off and the second volume was put to press, and from 
that time Murray became my publisher, conducting 
himself in all his dealings with that fair, open, and 
liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well- 
merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial ausj^ices of Sir 
Walter Scott, I began my literaiy career in Euro])e ; 
and I feel that I am l^ut discharging, in a trilling de- 
gree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden- 
hearted man in acknowledging my ol)ligations to him. 
But who of his literary contemporaries ever applied to 
him for aid or counsel that did not experience the most 
])r<)mpt, generous, and effectual assistance ! 

W. I. 

Sannyside^ IB-IS. 







<y^^tr^yu^' ^'^€l/^^^:'>t^ <U^, 



J^. 






^'^-'St 







^ " I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile 

that crept out of her shel was turned eftsoons into a 
toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so 
the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time 
transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his man- 
sion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would.' 

Lyly's Euphues. 



I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and oliserving 
strange cliaracters and manners. Even when a mere child I 
began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign 
parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent 
alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As 
I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. 
My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles aljout the sur- 
rounding country. I made myself familiar with all its places 
famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder 
or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the 
neighboring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowl- 
edge, by noting their hal)its and customs, and conversing with 
their sages and gi*eat men. I even jonrneyed one long summer's 



20 



TIIK SKETCH BOOK. 



day to the suiiunit of the most distant hilJ, whence I stretched 
my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished 
to find how vast a ghobe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened witli my years. Books 
of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring 
their contents, I neo'lected the reo'ular exercises of tlie school. 





How wistfully would I wander about the pierdieads in fine 
weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes — ■ 
with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, 
and waff myself in imagination to the ends of the earth. 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this 
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to 
make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own 
country ; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I 
shf)uld have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratifica- 
tion : for on no country have the charms of nature been more 
prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid 
silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her val- 
leys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, 



TIIK AlTllOirs ArCUL.XT OF llLMSKl.F. 21 

tlmudering in tlieir solitudes: lier boundless plains, \vavinL>- 
with spontaneous verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in 
solemn silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vege- 
tation puts forth all its magni licence ; her skies, kindling with 
the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunsliine : — no, never 
need an American look beyond his own country for the sulj- 
lime and beautiful of natural scenerj. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the 
refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities 
of ancient and local custom. My native country w^as full of 
youthful promise: Europe was rich in the accumulated treas- 
ures of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, 
and every mouldering stone w^as a chronicle. I longed to wan- 
der over the scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it 
were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined 
castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, 
from the common-place realities of the present, and lose myself 
among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men 
of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : 
not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled 
among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade 
into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a 
small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great 
man of a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of 
Europe ; for I had read in the works of various philosophers, 
that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the 
number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be 
as superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to 
a hio'hland of the Hudson : and in this idea I was confirmed 



22 tup: sketch hook. 

l)y o];)serving the comparative iuiportaiice and swelling' mag'iii- 
tude of many English travelers among us, who, I was assured, 
were very little people in their own country. I will visit this 
land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from 
which I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving pas- 
sion gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and 
witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that 
I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher ; but rather 
with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the pic- 
turesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another ; 
caught, sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by 
the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of 
landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel 
pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketch- 
es, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my 
friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memoran- 
dums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails 
me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great 
objects studied by every regular traveller who would make a 
book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
landscape painter, who had travelled on the continent, but, 
following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in 
nooks, and corners, and by -places. His sketch-book was accord- 
ingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; 
but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the 
cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples; and had not a single 
glacier or volcano in his whole collection. 




- ' % Th t V n r jt^ a js. 




Ships, ships, 1 will des- ' '" ffe \' ' '- 
crie yoii '' ,p, ' 

; ' Amidst the niHiii, 

T will come and try you, 
What you are protectiuji', 
And projecting-, 

AVhat's your end and aim. 
One goes al)road for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading. 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 



To an American visiting Europe, tlie long voyage lie lias to 
make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence ol" 
worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind pe- 



24 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



culiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. Tlie vast 
space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank 
page in existence. Tliere is no gradnal transition hy which, as 
in Enrope, tlie featnres and popnh^tion of one conntrj^ blend 
almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment 
you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you 
step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
bustle and novelties of another world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the 
story of life, and lessen the eifect of absence and separation. 
We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain" at each remove of our 
pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back 
link by link ; and we feel that the last still grapj^les us to home. 
But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us con- 
scious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled 
life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a 
o'ulf, not merelv imaginary, but real, between us and our hcjmes 
— a D'ulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering- 
distance palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the hori- 
zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and 
its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened an- 
other. That land, too, nciw vanishing from my A'iew, which 
contained all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might 
occur in it — what changes miglit take place in me, before 
I should visit it again? Who can tell, when he sets forth to 
wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of 
existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may ever be 
his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 



TIIK \(>^A(4K. 



25 



r sai<l tliat at st^a all is \-acancy : 1 should correct tlic expres- 
sion. Ti) one ,u'iven to (lavMlivarniny', and lond oClosiiii;' liiniseir 
in reveries, a sea voyage is full of snbjects for meditation: ful 
then they are the wonders of the dee]), and of the aii-. and rather 
tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
h)ll over the quarter-railing, or elimb to tlie main-to]). of a eahii 
day, and muse for hours together on the trancjuil bosom of a 
summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of goldcMi clouds Just ])eer- 
ing above the horizon, fancy them s(^me fairy realms, and peo])le 
them witli a creation of my own — to watch the gentle un<lulat- 
ing l)illows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die awav on 
those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled secui'ityaud awe 
with which [ looked down, fr(,)m mv giddy heiglit, on the mon- 
sters of the deey at their uncouth gam1)ols. Shoals of j)orp()ises 
tumbling about the l)OW of the ship ; the gram])us slowly heav- 
ing his huge form above the surface; or tlie ravenous shai'k, 
darting, like a spectre, through the bbu' waters. My imagina- 
tion would conjure u}) all that I had heard or read of the watery- 
world beneath me; of the finny herds that i-oam its iathoiidess 
valleys; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very 
foundations of the eartli; arid of those wild })hantasms that 
swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean. 
would be another theme of idle sjxN-nlation. Flow interesting 
this fragment of a world, hastening to i-ejoin the great mass of 
existence! What a glorious monument of human in\'entioii: 
which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wa\-e; has 
brought the ends of the world into connuunion : has established 
an interchange of blessings, pouring into the stei'ile i-egions ol 
the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light or 
4 



26 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



knowledge mid the charities of cultivated life; niid has thus 
bound too-ether those scattered portions of the human race, be- 
tween which nnture seemed to have thrown art insurmountnhle 
hjirricr. 

We one day descried some sha})eless object di'ifting at a dis- 
tance. At sea, eveiy thing that breaks the monotony of the 
surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the 
most of a shi}) that must have been completely wrecked; for 
tli(^r(^ were the remains of handkerchiefs. 1)V which some of 




the crew had fastened __^ 

themselves to this spar, to 

prevent their lieing washed t 

off by the waves. There was no ~-~ ^^^"^^^-^^ 

trace l)y which the name of the >-lii]) ~7---^y^ 

could be ascertained The wreck had 

evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish 

had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. 

But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been 

over — they have gone d<iwn amidst the roar of the tempest — their 



THE V0YA(4E. 



27 



l)ones lie wliitening nnion.H' the caverns of tlie dee]). Silence, 
oblivion, like the waves, have closed over thein, and no one can 
tell the storv of their end. What sighs have been wafted after 
that ship I what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of 
home ! How often lias the mistress, the wife, tlie mother, })ored 
over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this 
rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety 
— anxiety into dread — and di-ead into despair ! Alas ! not one 
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that mav 
ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and was 
never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wu-eck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
the weather, which had hitherto l;)een fair, began to look wild 
and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sud<len 
storms which will sometimes break in upon the seernity of a 
summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in 
the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his 
tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with 
a short one related by the captain. 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a tine stout ship across 
the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which pre- 
vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see ftir ahead 
even in the daytime; but at night the weather was so thick that 
we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the 
ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch for- 
ward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie 
at anchor on the l)anks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. 
Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 'a sail ahead!" — it was 
scarcelv uttered before we were upon her. She was a small 



28 



TIIK SKK'rclI lioOK. 



sclioolU'i', !it miclior, with liei' biMadside t«)\v;ii'(ls lis. 'J'lic cccw 
were nil ;isli^e]). mikI 1i;mI iieii'lected to hoist ;i liuht. We struck 




her just ainid-ships. The force, the size, and L 

weiglit of our vessel bore lier down beloAV tlie " ' 

Avaves; we passed over her and were liurried on 

our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking be- 

neatli us, T liad a glim[]:)se of twrt or three lialt'-naked wretches 

rusliing from her cabin; they just started from their ])e<ls to 

l)e swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowming 

crv mingling with the wind. The blast that l)ore it to our ears 

swept us out of all furtlun- hearing. I shall never forget that 



TilK VOYAGE. 



21) 



cry! It was some time l)efore we could put the ^^liij) nliout. she 
was under such headway. We returned, as nearl\' as \vc could 
guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised 
about for several hours in the dense fog. We hred signal guns, 
and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors; l)ut 
all was silent — we never saw or heard any tiling oi' them more" 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my line 
fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea, was 
lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen 
sound of rushing waves, and l)roken surges. Deep called unto 
deep. At times the black \'olume of clouds over head seemed 
rent asunder ])y flashes of lightning which rpuvercd along the 
foamins; billows, and niadt' the succeeding' darkness <loul)lv tcr- 
riljle. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste oT waters, 
and were ech(x'd and jiroloiiged by the mountain \va\'cs. As I 
saw the ship staggering and })lunging among these roaring cav- 
erns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or 
preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water: 
her l)ow was almost buried 1)eneath the waves. Sometimes an 
impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing 
but a dexterous movement of the lielm preserved her from tlie 
shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. 

The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like 

funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and 

groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltei'ing sea, 

were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing alon;': the sides 

of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seenKMl as if Death 

were raging round this floating ])rison. seeking lor his piv\-: the 

mere stalling of a nail, the \-awiiing of a seam, might gi\c hini 

entrance. 
5 



30 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

A fine flay, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, 
soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible 
to resist the ghuldening influence of fine weather and fair wind 
at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every 
sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how 
loftv, how gallant she appears — how she seems to lord it over 
the deep. 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for 
Avith me it is almost a continued reverie — but it is time to get 
to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry (jf " land !" 
was given from the mastdiead. None l)ut those wh6 liave expe- 
rienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in 
sight of Euro})e. There is a volume of associations with the 
very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing 
of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious 
years have pondered. 




ji^tSitSSSa. 



S¥« ^»^i*^54p-«~- 



From that time until the moment of arri\"al, it was all fever- 
ish excitement. The shij^s of war, that i»r()wlefl like guardian 



THE ^"OYAGE. 



31 



giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out 
into the channel: the Welsh mountains, towering into tlie 
clouds; all were ol))ects (_)f intense interest. As we saile(l up 
the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye 
dwelt wuth delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies 
and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey 
overrun with i\'y. and the taper spire of a village church rising 
from the bi'ow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of 
England, 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was en- 
al)led to come at once to the pier. It was thronged wdth people; 
some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of friends or rela- 
tives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was 
consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless 
air. His hands WT-re thrust into his jwckets; lie was whistling 
thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space liaving been 
accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his tempoi'arv im- 
portance. Thei'e were repeated cheerings and salutations inter- 
changed between the shore and the ship, as iriends happened to 
recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman 
of humble dress, liut interesting demeanor. She was leaning- 
forward from among the ci'owd: her eye hurried over the ship 
as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-i'or countenance. 
She seemed disappointed and agitated; when I heard a faint 
voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been 
ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one 
on l)oard. When the weather was tine, his messmates had 
spread a mattress foi' him on de(d\' in the shade, luit of late his 
illness had so increased, that he had taken t(~> his hammock, and 
only breathed a wish that he might see his wife lu'lore he dieil. 
He had heen helped on deck as we came up the v'wcw ami was 



82 



THE SKETCH BdiiK. 



now leauiim' auuiust the shrouds, with u eoruiteiiaue'e so wasted, 
so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of aliec- 
tion did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, lier 
eye darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole volume of 
sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood 
wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of 
business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no Iriend to 
meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my 
forefathers — but I felt that I was a stranger in the land. 




\-=w 



?RB> 







A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 






One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liv- 
erpool is the Athena3um. It is established on a liberal and 
judicious plan; it contains a good library, and spacious reading- 
room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at 
what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave- 
looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention 
was attracted to a person just entering the room. lie was ad- 
vanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been 
commanding, l)ut it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by 
care. He had a noble Eoman style of countenance ; a head that 
6 



84 



tup: sketch book. 



would have pleased a painter; and tliougli some slight furrows 
on his brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, 
yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There 
was something in his whole appearance that indicated a being 
of a different order from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Eoseoe. 
I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, 
then, was an author of celebrity ; this was one of those men, 
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth; with 
whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of 
America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know 
European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of 
them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, 
and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the dusty 
paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like superior 
beings, radiant with the emanations of their genius, and sur- 
rounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, ming- 
ling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical 
ideas; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in 
which he has been placed, that Mr. Eoseoe derives his highest 
claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some 
minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under 
every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible 
way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in 
disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear 
legitimate dullness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigor and 
luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds 
of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the 
stony places of the world, and some be choked liy the thorns 
and braml)les of early adversity, yet others will now and then 



KOSCOE. 



35 



strike root even in tlie clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up 
into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the 
beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Eoscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the very 
market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connections, or 
patronage; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, 
he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, 
and, having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has 
turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance 
and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given 
him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particular- 
ly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his 
literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished 
authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, 
live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their pri- 
vate history presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a 
humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, 
they are prone to steal away*from the bustle and commonplace 
of busy existence; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; 
and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Eoscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accord- 
ed privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden 
of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the 
highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted bowers by 
the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourn- 
er, and has opened pure fountains, where the laboring man may 
turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and driidc of the 
living streams of knowledge. There is a ••daily beauty in his 
life," on wlvich mankind mav meditate and grow better. It 



36 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, exam- 
ple of excellence; but presents a picture of active, yet simple 
and imitable virtues, wliicli are within every man's reach, but 
which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world 
would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 
citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and 
the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser 
plants of daily necessity; and must depend for their culture, 
not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quick- 
ening rays of titled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatch- 
ed from the pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and 
public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give 
its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo 
De' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a 
pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his 
life with the history of his native town, and has made the foun- 
dations of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever 
you go in Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all 
that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing 
merely in the channels of traffic ; he has diverted from it invig- 
orating rills to refresh the garden of literature. By his own 
example and constant exertions he has effected that union of 
commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recom- 
mended in one of his latest writings:* and has practically 
proved how beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and 
to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literaiy and 

* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



ROSCOE. 



37 



scientitic purposes, wliicli reflect such credit on Liverpool, and 
are giving sucli an impulse to tlie public mind, liave mostly 
been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. 
Koscoe; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence 
and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commer- 
cial importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in 
awakening an ambition of mental improvement among its inhab- 
itants, he lias effected a great benefit to the cause of British 
literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Eoscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his 
having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as 
I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the 
reach of my pity. Those who live only for tlie world, and in 
the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adversity ; but a 
man like Eoscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of for- 
tune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own 
mind; to the superior society of his own thoughts; which the 
best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in 
search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the world 
around him. He lives with antiquity and posterity ; with antiq- 
uity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement ; and with 
posterity, in the generous aspirings after future renown. The 
solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is 
then visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper 
aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, 
in the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on furtlier traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was 
liding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, 
when he turned ofl', through a gate, into some ornamented 



88 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious 
mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in 
the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation 
was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with 
clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country 
into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a 
broad quiet sheet of water through an exjDanse of green meadow- 
land ; while the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and 
melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his 
pros]3erity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and 
literary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. 
I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft 
scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the 
library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering 
about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the 
law. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once 
welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and 
dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered 
marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had 
consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he 
had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed 
under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed al)out 
the country. The good people of the vicinity thronged like 
wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been 
driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- 
tions, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange 
irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the 
armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 
wliicli they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves 



KOSCOE. 



39 



some knot of speculators, debating with calculating- brow over 
the cpiaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete 
author ; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which 
some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black- 
letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's mis- 
fortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious 
mind, that the parting with his l)Ooks seems to have touched 
upon his tcnderest feelings, and to have l)een the only circum- 
stance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar 
only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of 
pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the seasons of ad- 
versity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, 
these only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, 
and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and 
commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of 
happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which 
never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liver- 
pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe 
and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good 
worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, 
which it would be difficult to combat with others that might 
seem merely fanciful ; l)ut it certainly apj^ears to me such an 
opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind strug- 
gling under misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most 
expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, 
to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our 
eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. 
His great fpialities lose their novelty; we l)Ccome too familiar 
with the common materials which form the l)asis even of the 



40 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard 
liim merely as a man of business ; others as a politician ; all find 
him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and sur- 
passed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wis- 
dom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of 
character which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, 
may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who 
do not know that true worth is always void of glare and preten- 
sion. But the man of letters, who speaks of Livei-pool, speaks 
of it as the residence of Roscoe. The intelligent traveler who 
visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. He is the literary 
landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant 
scholar. He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering 
alone m classic dignity. 



m^ V'^h\"^ 




The following sonnet, adressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books 
on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. H 
any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought 
here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion 
of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writers heart. 



EOSCOE. 



41 






^^j.-^.' ^.f^./ /c~^ 




As one wlio, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart; 



Thus, loved associates, cliiefs of elder art. 
Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 



For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
Mind shall witli mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred si3irits meet to part no more. 






H .IIkV ^ 






THE WIFE. 



" The treasures of tlie deep are not 8o precious 
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed's not sweeter." 

MiDDLETON. 



I HAVE often had occasion to remark tlie fortitude with which 
women sustain the most overwhehning reverses of fortune. 
Those disasters wdjich break down the sj^irit of a man, and 
prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of 
the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing 



THE WIFE. 



43 



can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, 
who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every 
trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, 
suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support 
of her husband under misfortune, and al)iding, with unshrinking 
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about 
the oak, and been lifted l)y it into sunshine, will, when the 
hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its 
caressing tendrils, and bind ujd its shattered boughs; so is it 
beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the 
mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, 
should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calam- 
ity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, ten- 
derly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken 
heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I 
can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to 
have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are 
to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling 
into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world 
than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to ex- 
ertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who 
depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits 
are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, 
of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to 
run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and aban- 



44 THE SKETCH BoOK. 

donecl, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, 
for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautifnl and accomplished girl, who had been 
1 )ronght up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, 
no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted 
in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, 
and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that 
spread a kind of witchery about the sex. "Her life," said he, 
"shall be like a feiry tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an harmo- 
nious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious 
cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the 
mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, 
of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, 
in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if 
there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on 
his arm, lier slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly 
person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to 
him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and clier- 
ishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very 
helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery 
path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of 



It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embark- 
ed his property in large speculations ; and he had not been mar- 
ried many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, 
it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost 
to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and 
went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. 



THE WIFE. 



45 



His life was but a protracted agony; and wiiat I'cndered it more 
insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the 
presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to over- 
whelm her with the news. She saw, however, with tlie (juick 
eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked 
his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived 
by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked 
all her s})rightly powers and tender blandishments to win him 
back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into 
his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more tortur- 
ing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. 
A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that 
cheek — tlie song will die away from those lips — tlie lustre of 
those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, 
which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down 
like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day. and related his wliole sit- 
uation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I lieard him 
through I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" At the 
question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" 
cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; 
it is the thought of her tliat drives me almost to machiess!" 

"And why not?'' said I. "She must know it sooner or later: 
you cannot keep it long from hei", and the intelligence may 
break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by 
yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harsliest 
tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts 
of her sympathy ; and not merely that, l;)ut also endangering the 
only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved com- 
munity of thought and feeling. She will soon ]1ercei^•e that 
something is secretly preying upon your mind; ami true love 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged, wlien 
even tlie sorrows of tliose it loves are concealed from it." 

"Oh, but, my friend! to tliink wliat a blow I am to give to 
all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to 
the earth, by telling her tliat her husband is a beggar ! that she 
is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of so- 
ciety — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To 
tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which 
she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the 
light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! How can 
she bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refine- 
ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been 
the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break 
her heart!" 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for 
soiTow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- 
tively. 

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she 
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alter- 
ation of your circumstances. You must change your style of 
living nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
nance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 
placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less 
splendidly lodged ; and surely it does not require a palace to be 
happy with Mary — " 

"I could be hap])v witli her," cried he, convulsively, "in a 
hovel! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! 



THE WIFE. 



47 



I could — I could — God bless her! God bless her!" cried he 
bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- 
ing him warmly by the hand, "l)elieve me she can be the same 
with you. A J, more: it will be a source of pride and triuin[)h 
to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sym- 
pathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
you for yourself There is in every true woman's heart a spark 
of heavenly tire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of 
prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 
dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his 
bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
lie has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited 
imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with; 
and following up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
suading him to go home and unlnirden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- 
tude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ? 
Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the 
sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled. Besides, ruin 
in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifica- 
tions, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I could 
not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had 
made the disclosure. 

"And how did she bear it?" 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, 
for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

that liad lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, 
" she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; 
she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. 
When we come practically to exjDerience its sordid cares, its 
j^altry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial.'' 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, 
that of breaking it to her, the sooner yoa let the world into the 
secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then 
it is a single misery, and soon over, whereas you otherwise suffer 
it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so 
much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle 
between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a 
hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage 
to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." 
On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no 
false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to 
conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He 
had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage 
in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all 
day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required 
few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid 
furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his 
wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the 
idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for 
some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those 
when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this in- 
stance of romantic aallantrv in a dotino- husl)and. 



THE WIFE. 



49 



He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 
him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walk- 
ed out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his 
lips. 

"And what of her?" asked T: "has any thing happened to 
her?" 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing 
to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a misera- 
ble cottage — to be ol)liged to toil almost in the menial concerns 
of her wretched halntation?" 

"Has she then repined at the change?" 

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than T have ever 
known her; slie has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort !" 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, 
my fi'iend; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
l)oundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 

"Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first 
day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble 
dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its mis- 
erable equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fa- 
tigues of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, look- 
ed round her on a home destitute of every thing elegant — 
almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting 



50 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of fu- 
ture poverty." 

There was a degree of prol^ability in this picture that I could 
not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 




After turning from the main road uj) a narrow lane, so tliick- 
ly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclu- 
sion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humljle enough in 
its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a 
pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a 
2)rofusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully 
over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully dis- 
jDOsed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small 
wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some 



THE WIFE. 



51 



slirubberv to the door. -Just as we approaclicd. we heard tlie 
sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listen- 
ed. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching 
simplicity, a little air of which her huslxand was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 
to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping 
forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of wdiite ; a 
few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom 
was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — 
I had never seen her look so lovely. 

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come! 
I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down 
the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a 
beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some 
of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of 
them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is 
so sweet and still liere — Oh !"' said she, putting her arm within 
his, and looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so 
happy !" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he 
folded his arms around her — he kissed her again and again — he 
could not speak, luit the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
often assured me, that though the w^orld has since gone prosper- 
ously wnth him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
ne^■er has he expei'icnced a moment of more ex([uisite felicity. 



f^-l" iV j"f*i^^'^ 



-\^ Y L 



^X 



(L 



./|4^:v^ 




tK? 



OW6 j ^^,.#^ Saxons, ( t-^ ^^ J^ 

'"^ ^y /"! lo >i> From whence comes J \^ » -*- ' ' 

i ^-^^^A X'^ ^ Wensday, that is 1/ ^ v[^^i:|i=^|<^ 

tik fP''~''>^"%. ^ ^ \ Wodensday, ' \ 14^__-^ te 

liuth is I thing that e\er I will ~^\>if\ 
,-sE -.- keep 

- "~ Unto thylke day in which I creep into ^^P^U^- 

My yepuichre ^"" ^^^-f 

Cartwrigiit. 




A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KXICKEKBOCKER. 



[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedridi 
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious 
in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descend- 
ants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did 
not lie so much among hooks as among men ; for the former are lamen- 
talily scanty on liis favorite topics; whereas he found the old hurghers, 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and still more their wives, rich in that legendar}' lore, so invalnable to 
true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch 
family, snuo-ly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading 
sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, 
and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province dur- 
ing the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years 
since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character 
of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should 
be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little 
questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely estab- 
lished ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book 
of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and 
now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory 
to sa}", that his time might have been mucli better employed in weight- 
ier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and 
though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his 
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom lie felt the 
truest deference and aflection ; yet his errors and follies are remembered 
" more iu sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he 
never intended to injure or otfend. But however his memory may be 
appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose good 
opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, 
who have o-one so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; 
and havo thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the 
being stampeil <)u a ^^"atevloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.] 



Kll' VAN WINKJ.E. 



Ob 







Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem- 
ber the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered l)raneli 
of the great Appalaehian family, and are seen away to the west 
of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over 
the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change 
of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change 
in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are 



5(3 THE SKETCH B()(JK. 

regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barom- 
eters. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed 
in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
evening sky : but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is 
cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their 
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow 
and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose 
shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of 
the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer land- 
scape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been 
f()unded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of 
the province, just about the beginning of the government of the 
good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were 
some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few 
years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, hav- 
ing latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather- 
cocks. 

Tn tliat same village, and in one of these very houses (which, 
to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather- 
beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was 
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, 
of the name of Rip Van AVinkle. He was a descendant of the 
Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of 
Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 
Christina. He inherited, however, l)ut little of the martial 
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a sim- 
ple good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and 
an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circum- 
stance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 



Oi 



such universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be 
obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the disci- 
pline of shrews at Ikmuc. Their tem})ers, doid)tless, are ren- 
dered })liant and malleal)le in the liery furnace of domestic 
tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all th(3 sermons in 
the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffer- 
ing. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be 
considered a tolerable blessing; and if so. Rip Van Winkle 
was thrice blessed. 










Certain it is, that he was a great lavorite among all the good 

wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took 

his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever 

they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay 

9 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the vil- 
lage, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He 
assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to 
fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
witches, and Indians. AVhenever he went dodging about the 
village, he was surrounded hj a troop of them, hanging on his 
skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks 
on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him 
throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from 
the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet 
rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish 
all day without a murmur, even though he should not be en- 
couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in tlie roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences ; the 
women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their 
errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them. In a word. Rip was ready to 
attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing 
family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it im- 
possible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it 
was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole coun- 
try ; every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in 
spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his 
cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 



59 



were sure to grow quicker in Ms fields than anywhere else; 
the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some 
out-door work to do ; so that though, his patrimonial estate had 
dwindled away under his management, acre l:)y acre, until there 
was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes 
yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighl3orhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Eip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
promised to inherit the hal)its, with the old clothes of his father. 
He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he 
had much ado to hold uj) with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
ti-ain in bad weather. 

Rip A^an AVinkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, 
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat 
white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought 
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a 
pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in 
his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was 
bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure to 
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way 
of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, 
had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always 
provoked a fi-esh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to 
draw oft' his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the 
only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as 
much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regard- 



60 



THE SKETCH 1;(M)K. 




C(l them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf 
with an evil eye, as the cause of his masters going so often 
astray. True it is, in all jDoints of spirit befitting an honorable 
dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods 
— but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-be- 
setting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf enter- 
ed the house liis crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or 
curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, 
casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at 
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the 
door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van AVinkle as years 
of matrimony rolled on : a tart tem])er never mellows with age. 



\AX WINKLE. 



<u 



and a sliaq) tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener 
with eoustant use. For a long while he used to console himself, 
when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual 
clul) of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
village; which lield its sessions on a bench before a small inn, 
designated by a rubicund portrait of ITis Majestv George the 




Third. Here they used to sit in the shade througli a long, lazy 
summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling- 
endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been 
worth any statesman's monev to have heard the profound discus- 
sions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old news- 
]taper fell into their hands from some passing travclliM-. Tbnv 



62 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by 
Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little 
man, wlio was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in 
the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
public events some months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the 
inn, at the door of wliich he took his seat from morning till 
night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the 
shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, 
he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. 
His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), 
perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
"When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was 
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, 
frequent, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale 
the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid 
clouds; and sometimes, taking the pij^e from his mouth, and 
letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely 
nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in 
upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members 
all to nauglit ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder 
himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this temble virago, 
who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in 
habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only 
alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of 
his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the 



KIP VAN WINKLE. Qg 

woods. Here lie would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a 
tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
he sympathized as a fellow-siiflferer in persecution. "Poor 
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; 
but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a 
friend to stand by thee !" Wolf would wag his tail, look wist- 
fully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily be- 
heve he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip liad 
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the 
Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel 
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with 
the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, 
late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain 
herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an open- 
ing between the trees he could overlook all the lower countrv 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but ma- 
jestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of 
a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy l)osom, and 
at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
wild, lonely, and shagged, tlie l>ottom filled with fragments from 
the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays 
of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this 
scene; evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began 
to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that 
it would be dark long before he could reach tlie village, and he 
heaved a heavy sigh when lie thought of encountering the ter- 
rors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heai'd a voice from a distance. 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

hallooing, " Kip Van Winkle ! Eip Van Winkle !" He looked 
round, but could see nothing l)ut a crow winging its solitary 
flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 
deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the 
same cry ring through the still evening air ; "Eip Van Winkle ! 
Rip Van Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his 
back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, look- 
ing fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague appre- 
hension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously in the same 
direction, and perceived a strange figure slowl}^ toiling up the 
rocks, and liending under the weight of something he carried on 
his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this 
lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one 
of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down 
to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singu- 
larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built 
old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His 
dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strap- 
ped round the waist— several pairs of breeches, the outer one of 
ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, 
and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, 
that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach 
and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrust- 
ful of this new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual alac- 
rity ; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a 
narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As 
they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, 
like distant thunder, tliat seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, 
or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged 
path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to 



Jai' YAM WINKLE. 



65 



Ijc the luutteriiitj' of one of tliose trunsieiit tliuiider-sliowers 
wliieli often take place in mountain liei,ulits, lie proceeded, l^ass- 
ing througli the ravine, they carne to a hollow, like a small ;mi- 
})hitlieatre, surrounded 1)V perpendieular precipices, over the 
brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that3'ou 
oidy canght glimpses of the a/Aire sky and the bright evening 
cloud. During the whole time, Kip and his companion had la- 
bored on in silence; for though the former mai'velled greatly 
what could l)e the ol)ject of carrying a keg of liquor up this 
wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incompre- 
hensi1)le about the unknown, that inspired awe ;md eiiecked 
familiarity. 

On entering the aniplii theatre, new objects oi' ^voll(h■r ])re- 
sented themseh'cs. On a level spot in the centre was a com- 
pany of odd-looking personages })laying at nine-})ins. 'IMiev 
were dressed in a qnaint outlandish fashion: some wore short 
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most 
of them had enormons breeches, of similar style with that of 
the guide's. Their visages, too, were pecuHar: one had a large 
beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of anotlier 
seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmountcfl by u 
white sugar-loaf hat, set oft' Avith a little red cock's tail, 'i'hey 
all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one 
who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentle- 
man, with a weather-l)eaten countenance; he wore a laced doub- 
let, broad l)elt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red 
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. 'J'he 
whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish 
])ainthig, in the parlor of Dcmiinie Van Shaick, the village par- 
son, and which had been brought over Trom llolhind at tin' time 
(.rthe settlement. 
10 



gg THE SKETCH BOOK. 

What seemed particularly odd to Eip was, tliat thougli tliese 
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained 
the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, 
the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
the halls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the 
mountains like rund)ling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, 
statuedike gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lackdustre counte- 
nances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote 
together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trcmlding; they cpiafted the 
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their g[ime. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the bever- 
age, which he found had much of the flax'or of excellent Hol- 
lands. He was naturally a tliirsty soul, and was soon tempted 
to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; and he 
reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at leno-th his 
senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head 
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleejx 

On waki}ig, he found himself on the green knoll whence he 
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — 
it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and 
twittering among the l)ushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, 
and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought 
Rip, "I have not slept here all night.'' He recalled the occur- 
rences l)efore he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 
li([uor — tlic mountain ravine — the wild reti'cat among the rocks 



EIP VAN WINKLE. f^7 

■ — the woebegone party at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh ! that 
flagon! that wicked flagon !" thought Eip — "what excuse shall 
I make to Dame Van Winkle ?" 

He looked round for his gun. hut in place of the clean, well- 
oiled fowling-piece, he tbund an old hrelock lying by him, the 
l)arrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the 
mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with 
liquor, had robl)ed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, 
l)ut he might have strayed away after a squirrel or parti-idge. 
He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; tlie 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of tlie last eveninu's 2:am- 
bol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and 
gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, 
and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do 
not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay 
me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time 
with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down 
into the glen: he found the gully up which he and Ids com- 
panion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonish- 
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from 
rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, 
however, made shift to scraml)le up its sides, working his toil- 
some way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, 
and sometimes tripped up or entangled l)y the wild grape-vines 
that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a 
kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
the cliifs to the am])hitheativ ; but no traces of sucli optMiing 
]-emaincd. 'I'lic I'ocks iircsciitcMl a liigli iinpcnctrablc wall. i>ver 



^^f^ TllK SKETCH BOOK. 

which the torrent eaiiie tuinl)liii,u- in a sheet of feathery foam, 
and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of tlie 
surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a 
stand. He again called and whistled after his dog ; he was only 
answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high 
in air al)out a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and 
who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoft' at 
the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morn- 
ing was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 
breakfest. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded 
to meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
ward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but 
none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
thought himself acquainted with every one in the country 
round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to 
which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal 
marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, 
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this 
gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his 
astonishment, he found his beanl had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing 
at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recog- 
nized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The 
very village was altered ; it was larger and more populous. 
There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and 
those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
Strange names were over the dooi's — strano-e faces at tlie windows 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 



69 



— evei'Y thinu- was .strange. His mind now misgave him; lie be- 
gan to doubt whether both he and the world around him were 
not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he 
had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill moun- 
tains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was 
every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Eip was 
sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, "has 
addled my poor head sadly !" 




>\v>. c^ 



Tt was with some difiiculty that he found the way to his own 

house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 

moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 

found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows 

11 



70 THE SKpyrOH liOlJK. 

shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A lialf-starved dog- 
that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Eip called him 
by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
This was an unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor 
Rip, " has forgotten me !" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kejjt in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently aljandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connul)ial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the 
lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all 
again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the vil- 
lage inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden build- 
ing stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the 
door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch 
inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with some- 
thing on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it 
was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars- 
and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He rec- 
ognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, un- 
der which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even 
this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed 
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead 
of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and un- 
derneath was painted in large characters. General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about 
it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. 



KU' \AN WINKLK. 



71 



He looked in vain for tlie sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad 
lliee, donble clun, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of toliaceo 
smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, th(^ scliool- 
master, doling forth the contents of an ancient news})aper. In 
place of these, a lean, hiliousdooking fellow, with Lis pockets 
full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of 
citizens — elections — members of Congress — libertv — Bunker's 
Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were a 
perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Eip, with his long grizzled beard, iiis rustv 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an armv of women and 
children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern 
politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head 
to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled u}) to him, and, 
drawing him partly aside, inquired ''on which side be voted?" 
Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but Ijusv little 
fellow^ pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, incpiired in 
his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat?"' Kip was 
equally at a loss to comprehend tlie question ; when a knowing, 
self-important okl gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his 
way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with 
his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, 
with one arm akind)o, the other resting on his cane, his keen 
eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, 
demanded, in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election 
with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at liis heels, and whether 
he meant to breed a riot in the village?" "Alas! gentlemen," 
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a na- 
tive of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, Grod bless him !"' 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — " A tory ! 
a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !" It was 



72 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked 
hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, wdiat he came 
there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in 
search of some of his neighbors, who nsed to keep about the 
tavern. 

"Well, who are they? Name them." 

Eip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little wdiile, wlien an old man re- 
plied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Yedder! why, he is 
dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden 
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, 
but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Broni Dutcher?"' 

" Oh, he went oft' to the army in the beginning of the war ; 
some say lie was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others 
say he w^as drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. 
I don't know — he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?'' 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and 
is now in Congress." 

Rips heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : 
w^ar — Congress— Stouy Point ; — he had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle?" 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three, " Oh, 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 



78 



to be i^iire ! that's Kip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Eip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as 
he went np the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as 
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or an- 
other man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not my- 
self — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder- — no — that's some- 
body else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell 
asleep on the mountain, and they'ye changed my gun, and every 
thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's iny 
name, or who I am !" 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
signiiicantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 
was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipi- 
tation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed 
through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she^ "hush, you little fool; 
the old man won't hurt von." The name of the child, the air of 
the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- 
lections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" 
asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name?" 

" Ah ! poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twen- 
ty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never 
12 



74 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



lias been liearcl of since — his dog came liome without him ; but 
whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, no- 
body can tell. I was then l)ut a little girl." 

Eip had but one question more to ask ; but he ])nt it with a 
fixltering voice : 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a 
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father !" 
cried he — "young Eip Van "Winkle once — old Eip Van Winkle 
now ! Does nol)ody know poor Eip Van Winkle ?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under 
it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Eip 
Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old neigh- 
bor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" 

Ei})'s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one niabt. The neighbors stared when tliev 
heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their 
tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the 
cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the 
field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his 
head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head 
throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vauderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most 
ancient inhabitant of the villao'e, and well versed in all the won- 



RIP VAX WINKLE. y- 

(lerful events and traditions of the neiohbovliood. lie recol- 
lected Rip at once, and corroborated las story in the most sat- 
isfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, 
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill 
mountains had always been liaunted liy strange beings. That 
it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discov- 
erer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there everv 
twenty years, witli his crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted 
in this way to revisit the scenes of liis enterprise, and keep a 
guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his 
name. That his father liad once seen them in their old Dutch 
dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and 
tliat he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of 
their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke uj), and re- 
turned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's 
daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon 
his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of him- 
self, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on 
the farm ; Ijut evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any 
thing else bat his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and l)eing arrived at that hap- 
py age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place 
once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as 
one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 



7H 



THE SKETni BOOK. 




times "before tlie war." It was some time before lie could get 
into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend 
the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How 
that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had 
thrown off" the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being 
a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free 
citizen of the United States. Eip, in fact, was no politician ; tlie 
changes of states and empires made but little impression on 
him ; but there was one species of despotism under which he 
had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Hap- 
pily that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, with- 
out dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



77 



name was mentioned, however, he shook liis head, shrugged his 
shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an 
expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at liis deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. 
Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some 
points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his 
having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 
the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the 
neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended 
to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of 
his head, and that this was one point on which he always re- 
mained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost 
universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never 
hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaats- 
kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their 
game of nine-pins ; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked 
husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their 
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Eip Van 
Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. 
Knickei'hocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Fred- 
erick der Bothburt, and the Kyppliaiiser mountain : the subjoined note, 
liowever, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an ahso- 
hite fact, narrated with liis usual fidelity : 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and 
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated 
to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, 



78 



THK SKETCH I!<iOlv. 



Avho, Avhen last I saw him, Avas a very venerabk' (>1<1 man, and so per- 
fectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no 
conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I 
have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and 
signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- 
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

"D. K." 




POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. 
Knickerbocker: 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



79 



The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a reo-ion full 
of fable. The Indians considered them the abode cf spirits, who in- 
fluenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, 
and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old 
squaw^ spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak 
of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night, to open 
and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the 
skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if prop- 
erly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs 
and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, 
flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, 
dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, 
causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an 
inch an hour. If displeased, however, she w ould brew up clouds black 
as ink, sitthig in the midst of them like a bottled-bellied spider in the 
midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, wo betide the valleys ! 




In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou 
or Spirit, who kept al)Out the \\ilde8t recesses of the Catskill Mountains, 
and took a mischievous pleasui'c in wreaking all kinds of evils and vex- 
ations upon the red men. Soanctimes he would assume the form ^l a 



80 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



bear, a panther, or a deer, lead tlie bewildered liunter a weary cbase 
through tangled forests and among ragged rocks; and then spring off 
with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling 
precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock 
or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering- 
vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its 
neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the 
foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water- 
snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on 
the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch 
that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. 
Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his Avay, penetrated 
to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the 
crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made oft' with it, but in 
the hurry of his retreat he let it ftill among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down 
precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its 
way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day ; being 
the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 





"Methiaks I see m my nuiid a 
noble and puissant nation, lousmg her- 
self like a strong man after slee^i, and shaking her 
invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her 
mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary 
animosity daily growing up between England and America. 
Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the 
United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes 
of travels through the republic ; but they seem intended to dif- 
fuse error rather than knowledge ; and so successful have they 
been, that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the 
nations, there is no people concerning wliom the great mass of 
the British public have less pure information, or entertain more 
1 1 unierous prej udices, 
18 



82 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

English truvellers are tlie best and the worst in the world. 
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal 
them for prof )nvid and philosophical views of society, or foith- 
ful and graphical descriptions of external ol)jects; but when 
either the interest or re23utation of their own country comes in 
collision with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, 
and forget their usual jn'obity and candor, in the indulgence of 
splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more 
remote the country described. I would place implicit confi- 
dence in an Englishman's descriptions of the regions beyond the 
cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; 
of the interior of India ; or of any other tract which other trav- 
ellers might be apt to picture out with the illusions of tlieir 
fancies ; but I would cautiously receive his account of his im- 
mediate neighbors, and of those nations with wdiich he is in 
habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might be dis- 
posed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our countrv to be visited 
by the worst kind of English travellers. While men of philo- 
sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from Eng- 
land to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study 
the manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she 
can have no permanent intercourse of profit or jileasure: it has 
been left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adven- 
turer, the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming- 
ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From such 
sources she is content to receive her information respecting a 
country in a singular state of moral and physical development; 
a country in which one of the greatest political experiments in 
the history of the world is now jierforming; and which presents 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. g^ 

the most profound and inonientous studies to the statesman and 
the philosopher. 

That sucli men should give prejudicial accounts of America 
is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contempla- 
tion are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national 
character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its froth- 
iness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and whole- 
some ; it has already given proofs of powerful and generous 
qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down into some- 
thing substantially excellent. But the causes which are oper- 
ating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indications of 
admiral)le properties, are all lost upon these j^urblind observers ; 
who are only affected by the little asperities incident to its 
present situation. They are capable of judging only of the 
surface of things ; of those matters which come in contact witli 
their private interests and personal gratifications. They miss 
some of the snug conveniences and pettv comforts which belong- 
to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous state of society; 
where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many earn a 
painful and servile subsistence by studying the very caprices of 
appetite and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, 
are all-important in the estimation of narrow minds ; which 
either do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are 
more than counterbalanced among us l)y great and generally 
diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unrea- 
sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured 
America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver 
abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where 
they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some un- 
foreseen, but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

indulges absurd expectations produces petulance in disappoint- 
ment. Sucli persons become embittered against tlie country on 
finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must sow before 
he can reap; must win wealth by industry and talent; and 
must contend with the common difficulties of nature, and the 
shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, thi'ough mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or from 
the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, 
prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated 
with unwonted respect in America; and having been accus- 
tomed all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of 
good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, 
they become arrogant on the common boon of civility : they 
attribute to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and 
underrate a society wdiere there are no artificial distinctions, 
and where, by any chance, such individuals as themselves can 
rise to consequence. 

One W'Ould suppose, however, that information coming from 
such sources, on a subject wdiere the truth is so desirable, would 
be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the 
motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of in- 
quiry and observation, and their capacities forjudging correctly, 
would be rigorously scrutinized before their evidence was ad- 
mitted, in such sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The 
very reverse, however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking 
instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vig- 
ilance with which English critics will examine the credibil- 
ity of the traveller wdio publishes an account of some distant, 
and comparatively unimportant country. How warily will they 
compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the descriptions of 
a ruin; and how sternlv will thev censure any inaccuracv in 



ENGLISH WKITERS ON AMERICA. 



85 



these contributions of merely curious knowledge: while they 
will receive, witli eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross 
misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, concernino- a 
country with which their own is placed in the most important 
and delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apocry- 
phal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge with a zeal and 
an ability worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed 
topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue inter- 
est apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain inju- 
rious effects which I apprehended it might jjroduce upon the 
national feeling. We attach too much consequence to these at- 
tacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of 
misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us are like cob- 




webs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country 
continually outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls 
off of itself We have but to live on, and every day we live a 
whole voliuue of refutation. 



3(5 ' thp: sketch book. 

All the writers of Eiigiaud united, if we could for a moment 
suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a combina- 
tion, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, and 
matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are 
owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral 
causes — to the political liberty, the general diffusion of knowl- 
edge, the prevalence of sound moral and religious principles, 
which give force and sustained energy to the character of a 
people ; and which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and 
wonderful supporters of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of 
England? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by 
the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not 
in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and reputation 
lias its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's 
fame ; wdth its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and 
from their collective testimony is national gloiy or national dis- 
grace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little im- 
portance whether England does us justice or not; it is, perhaps, 
of far more importance to herself. She is instilling anger and 
resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its 
growth and strengthen with its strength. If in America, as 
some of her writers arc laboring to convince her, she is hereafter 
to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank 
those very writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated 
hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading influence of lit- 
erature at the present day, and how much the opinions and pas- 
sions of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of 
the sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and 
it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but 



ENGLISH WiaTEK.S ON AMEKICA. 



87 



tlie skiinlers of the pen pierce to tlie heart; they rankle lonoest 
ill the noblest spirits; they dwell ever present in the mind, and 
render it morlndly sensitive to the most triHing collision. It is 
but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between 
two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a previons jealousy 
and ill-will ; a predisposition to take oifence. Trace these to 
their cause, and how often will they be found to originate in tlic 
mischievous effusions of mercenary writers; who, secure in their 
closets, and for ignominious Ijread, concoct and circulate the 
venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point; for it ap- 
plies most emphatically to our jDarticnlar case. Over no nation 
does the press hold a more absolute control than over the people 
of America ; f<n- the universal education of the poorest classses 
makes every individual a reader. There is nothing published 
in England on the subject of our country that does not circulate 
through every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from 
English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English 
statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and add to the 
mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, 
the fountaindiead whence the literature of the language flows, 
how completely is it in her power, and liow truly is it her duty, 
to make it the medium of amialjle and magnanimous feeling — 
a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink 
in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning 
it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may re- 
pent her folly. The present friendship of America may l)e of 
but little moment to her; but the future destinies of that coun- 
try do not admit of a doubt ; over those of England there lower 
some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom ar- 
rive; should these reverses overtake her, from wliich the proud- 



88 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

est empires liave not been exempt; slie may look back with 
regret at lier infatuation, in repulsing from lier side a nation she 
might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only 
chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own do- 
minions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the people of 
the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is 
one of the errors which have been diligently propagated by 
designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political 
hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the Eng- 
lish press; but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of the 
people are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, 
they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an absurd de- 
gree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a j)assport 
to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too often 
gave a transient currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. 
Throughout the country there was something of enthusiasm 
connected with the idea of Endand. We looked to it with a 
hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the land of 
our forefathers — the august repository of the monuments and 
antiquities of our race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the 
sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own coun- 
try, there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none 
whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none to- 
ward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm 
consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was 
the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was 
the delight of the generous spirits of our country to show that, 
in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the sparks of fu- 
ture friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end? Is this grolden band of kindred 



ENGLISH WEITERS ON AMERICA. 



89 



sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever? 
Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have in- 
terfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the 
growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the 
kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest — closer 
to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast back a look 
of regret, as we wander farther and farther from the paternal 
roof, and lament the wayw^ardness of the parent that would re- 
pel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted, and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 
England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on 
our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt 
and spirited vindication of our country, nor the keenest casti- 
gation of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition to retali- 
ate in kind ; to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice ; which 
seems to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard 
particularly against such a temper, for it would double the evil 
instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and in- 
viting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and 
an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, 
fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If 
England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the 
rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her 
press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware 
of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, 
and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emigration ; 
we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any 
spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in all our rival- 
ships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. 
There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification 
1^ 



90 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is 
impotent. Our retorts are never republished in England ; they 
fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous 
and peevish temper among our writers; they sour the sweet 
flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles among 
its blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate through our 
own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent na- 
tional prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be 
deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, 
the utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the 
j)ublic mind. Knowledge is jDOwer, and truth is knowledge ; 
whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully 
saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be 
candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of 
the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled 
to come to all questions of national concern with calm and un- 
biased judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations 
with England, we must have more frequent questions of a diffi- 
cult and delicate character with her than with any other nation ; 
questions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings ; and 
as, in the adjusting of these, our national measures must ulti- 
mately be determined l)y po})ular sentiment, we cannot be too 
anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or pre- 
possession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every 
portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It 
should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at 
least, destitute of national anti2:)atliies, and exercising not mere- 
ly the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noble 
courtesies which spring from liberality of o])inion. 



ENGLISH WKITERS ON AMERICA. 9][ 

Wliat have we to do with national prejudices? They are 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and 
ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and 
looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. 
We, on tlie contrary, have sprung into national existence in an 
enlightened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the 
habitable world, and the various branches of the human flimily, 
have been indefatigal :)ly studied and made known to each other ; 
and we forego the advantages of our 1)irth, if we do not shalce 
off the national })rejudices, as we would the local superstitious 
of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, 
so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really ex- 
cellent and amiable in the English character. We are a young 
people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our exam- 
ples and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of 
Europe. There is no country more worthy of our study than 
England. The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to 
ours. Tlie manners of her people — their intellectual activity — 
their freedom of opinion — their habits of thinking on those sub- 
jects which concern the dearest interests and most sacred chari- 
ties of private life, are all congenial to the American character; 
and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent; for it is in the moral 
feeling of the people that the deep foundations of British pros- 
perity are laid ; and however the superstructure may be time- 
worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in 
the basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the structure 
of an edifice that so long has towered unshaken amidst the tem- 
pests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all 
feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality 



92 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



of British authors, to speak of the English nation without preju- 
dice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the in- 
discriminating bigotry with which some of our countrymen 
admire and imitate every thing English, merely because it is 
English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of 
approbation. We may thus place England before us as a per- 
petual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deduc- 
tions from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors 
and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may 
draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith to 
strenofthen and to embellish our national character. 





^/ -g:^ 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLx\ND. 

Oh! friendly to the hest jmrsiiits of man. 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPER. 



The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng- 
lish character must not confine his observations to the metropo- 
lis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in 
villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, 
cottages; he must wander through parks and gardens; along 
hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches; 
attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with 
tlie people in all their conditions, and all their liabits an'l liu- 
niors. 



94: THE SKETCH BOOK. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fash- 
ion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and 
intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely 
by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metrop- 
olis is a mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the po- 
lite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a 
hurry of gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind 
of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial liab- 
its of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore 
diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most 
retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feel- 
ing. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, 
and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the 
country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the in- 
habitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and 
bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince 
a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat 
in the vicinity of the metropolis, wdiere he often displays as 
much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and 
the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his busi- 
ness, and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those 
less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives 
in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something that 
shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most 
dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window 
resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of 
vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-l)ed; and every square 
its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming 
with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman onl\^ in town are apt t(j form 



KURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



95 



an unfavorable opinion of bis social character. He is either 
absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engage- 
ments tliat dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge 
metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry 
and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the 
point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he is talking on 
one subject, his mind is wandering to another; and while pay- 
ing a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize 
time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An 
immense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men 
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meet- 
ings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present 
but the cold superficies of character — its rich and genial quali- 
ties have no time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formal- 
ities and negative civilities of town; throws off his habits of 
shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He man- 
ages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies 
of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat 
aljounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, 
tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, mu- 
sic, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at 
hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, 
Ijut in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of en- 
joyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his incli- 
nation. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have 
studied nature intently, and discover an excpiisite sense of her 
beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, 



96 



THE SKETCH BuOK. 



which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here 
assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to 
have caught her coy and fm-tive graces, and spread them, like 
witchen'. about their rural abodes. 






'*!="'-'" ^1^ '- 




f^ifi-y-^!. 



Nothing can be moie inipo 
sing than the magnificence of '-■ 

English park sceneix. Vast 
lawns that extend like sheets of 
vi^dd green, with here and there 

clumps of gigantic ti-ees, heaping up rich piles of foliage: 
the solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the 
deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare, bound- 
ing away to the covert: or the pheasant, suddenly bursting 



EURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



97 



upon the wing : tlie brook, taught to wind, in natural nieander- 
ings or expand into a glass}' lake: the sequestered pool, reflect- 
ing the qui^'ering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its 
bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters; 
while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and 
dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what 
most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English 
decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest 




haljitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in 
the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. 
With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its ca- 
pabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand; and yet the 
operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be per- 
ceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cautious 
pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of 
tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of 
velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or 
silver gleam of water: all these are managed with a delicate 
15 



C),^ THK S1vI<:T('11 JdODK. 

tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like tlie magic toucliings 
with wliicli a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the 
country has difiused a degree of taste and elegance in rural 
economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, 
with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends 
to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot before 
the door, the little flower-bed l;)ordered with snug box, the wood- 
bine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about 
tlie lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly, provi- 
dently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, 
and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fire- 
side : all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from 
high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the })ul)lic mind. 
If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be 
the cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life amona' the hiuher classes of the 
English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national 
character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English 
gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- 
acterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union 
of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of 
complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so 
much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating 
recreations of the country. These; hardy exercises produce also 
a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and sim- 
plicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the 
town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In 
the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach 
more freely, to l)e more disposed to blend and operate favorably 
upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear 



RURAL LIFE IN ENC4LAN1). 



99 



to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner 
in which property, has been distributed into small estates and 
farms has estal)lished a regular gradation from the nol)lenian, 
through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and sul)- 
stantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry: and while it 
has tlius banded the extremes of society together, has infused 
into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it 
must be confessed, is not so universally the case at })resent as it 
Avas formerly ; the larger estates luuing, in late years of distress, 
absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost 
annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, 
I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have 
mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and deljasing. It 
leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; 
leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by 
the purest and most elevating of external intiuences. Such a 
man may l)e simple and rough, but lie cannot be vulgar. The 
man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- 
course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
casually mingles witli the lower orders of cities. He lays aside 
his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of 
rank, and to enter into the honest, heart-felt enjoyments of com- 
mon life. Indeed the very amusements of tlie country bring 
men more and more together; and the sounds of hound and 
horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one 
great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular 
among the inferior orders in England than they are in any 
other country; and why the latter have endured so many ex- 
cessive pressures and extremities, without re})ining more gener- 
ally at the uneciual distribution of fortune and privilege. 



100 



thp: sketch book. 



To tills mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be 
attributed tlie rural feeling tliat runs through British literature ; 
the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incom- 
parable descriptions of nature tliat abound in the British poets, 
that have continued down from "the Flower and the Leaf" of 
Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and 
fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other 
countries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, 
and become acquainted with her general charms; but the Brit- 
ish poets have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed 
her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest 
cajDrices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could 
not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could iiot patter in 
-the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the huml)le vio-. 
let, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, Init it 
has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, 
and wrought up into some beautiful morality. 

The etfect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- 
tions lias been wu:)nderful on the face of the country. A great 
})art of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, 
were it not for the charms of culture : but it is studded and 
gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered 
with parlvS and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sub- 
lime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural I'cpose 
and sheltered quiet. Every antique fjirm-house and moss-grown 
cottage is a picture : and as the roads are continually winding, 
and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is de- 
lighted hj a continual succession of small landscapes of capti- 
vating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral 
fccliiiii' tliat seems to ix^rvado it. Tt is associated in tlx- mind 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAKl). 



LOl 



with ideas oi' order, of quiet, of sol:)cr, well-estal_)lished priiici- 
})les, of lioaiy usage and reverend custom. Every thino- seems 
to be tlie growtli of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The 




old cliurch of remote architecture, with its low massive portal : 
its gothic tower; its windows rich with trarerv and ]iainted 



IQ2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

glass, ill scrupulous preservation; its stately nionuuients of war- 
riors and worthies of tlie olden time, ancestors of the present 
lords of the soil; its tombstones, recording successive genera- 
tions of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same 
fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint, ir- 
regular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the 
tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath 
leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along 
shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorial right of way — 
the neighboring village, with its venei-able cottages, its public 
green sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the 
present race have sported — the antique family mansion, stand- 
ing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a 
protecting air on the surrounding scene : all these common feat- 
ures of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, 
and hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues and local at- 
tachments, that speak deeply and touchingiy lor the moral char- 
acter of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell 
is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold 
the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and mod- 
est cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to 
church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the even- 
ings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to ex- 
ult in the humble comforts and embellishments which tlieir own 
hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection in 
the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest 
virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these des- 
ultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern 
English poet, who has de])icted it with remarkable felicity : 



la'KAl. LIFK ]X KX(n.AM). 



l(i; 




riiiougli each giadatKju. tioin tlie cahtled hall. ". 
The cit,v dome, the villa crowned with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Do-OTi to the cottaged vale, and straw-roofed shed ; 
This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 
Can centre in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven : 
That, like a Hower dee]) liid in rocky cleft, 
Smiles, though 'tis lookino' onlv at the skv.* 



* From a Poem on the death 
Kenned V, A. M. 



if the Princess (.'harlotte. bv the Reverend Rnnn 



/ \\i lip < I I 



/4^|i'll 




>r^ I 



THE BPiOKEN HEART. 



I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest Ijook, tlie rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

T is a common practice with those who have outlived 
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been 
brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipa- 
ted life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat 
the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions 
of novelists and poets. My observations on 
human nature have induced me to think other- 
wise. They have convinced me, that however 
the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the 
cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles Ijy the arts 
of society, still there are dormant tires lurking in the depths of 




THE BROKEN HEART. 



lOf 



the coldest l^osom, wliicli, when once enkindled, become inipet- 
nous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I 
am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full ex- 
tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in broken 
hearts, and tlie ^possibility of dying of disappointed love. I 
do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own 
sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely 
woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and aml)ition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 
is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in 
the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for 
space in the world's thonght, and dominion over his fellow-meu. 
But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The 
heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire ; 
it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends 
forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul 
in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hope- 
less — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts 
some prospects of felicity ; but lie is an active being — he may 
dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or 
may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of dis- 
appointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his 
abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, 
can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medi- 
tative life. She is more tlie companion of her own thoughts 
and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, 
where shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed 
16 



106 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and won ; and if unhappy in Tier love, her lieart is like some 
fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and al^andoned, and 
left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 
and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As 
the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal 
the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of 
woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 
The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even 
when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there 
lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With 
her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of 
existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide 
of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is 
broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melan- 
choly dreams — "dr}^ sorrow drinks her blood," until her en- 
feebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look 
for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping 
over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but late- 
ly glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should 
so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." 
You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposi- 
tion, that laid her low ; — but no one knows of the mental 
malady which previously sapped her strength, and made her so 
easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, 
when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop- 



THE BROKEN HEAET. 



107 



ing its l)vaiiches to the eartli, and sliedding leaf by leaf, until, 
wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the 
forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have 
smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and have 
repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the 
various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disapipoint- 
ed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me; 
the circumstances are well known in the country where they 
happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which 
they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , 

the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. 
During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and 
executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im- 
pression on puTjlic sympathy. He was so young — so intelli- 
gent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt 
to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so 
lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he re- 
pelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent 
vindication of his name — and his diathetic appeal to posterity, 
in the hopeless hour of condemnation- — -all these entered deep- 
ly into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented 
the stern policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would l)e impossi- 
ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had 
won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
dauo'hter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 



108 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

with tlie disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. 
When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when 
blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around 
his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very suffer- 
ings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of 
his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole 
soul was occu]3ied by his image? Let those tell who have had 
the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its 
threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence 
all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dis- 
honored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could 
soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though mel- 
ancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — nothing 
to melt sorrow into those l:)lessed tears, sent like the dews of 
heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had in- 
curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 
and was an exile from the paternal roof But could the sym- 
pathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so 
shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced 
no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and 
generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing atten- 
tions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She 
was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occu2:)ation 
and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the 
tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are 
some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — ■ 
which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and l^last it, 
never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected 
to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there 



THE BKOKEN HEART. l{)(^ 

as in the depths of solitude; walking about in a s;id reverie, 
apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried 
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the l:)landishments 
of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm 
he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of fiir-gone wretchedness 
more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
find it wanderiiig like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trapi)ings of mirth, 
and looking so wan and woebegone, as if it had tried in vain to 
cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the 
steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a 
vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she 
began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble n 
little plaintive air. She had an excjuisite voice; but on this 
occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such 
a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
around her, and melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It com- 
pletely won the heart of a brave officer, wlio paid his addresses 
to her, and thought tliat one so true to the dead could not but 
prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, 
for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of 
her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He so- 
licited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute 
and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness 
17 



110 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



'^\>4i 



.,,^.,^^||^i||;|'!i|||^ 




of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her 
hand, tTiough with the solemn assurance that her heart was un- 
alterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the rememl:)rance of early woes. She 
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a 
happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring 
melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted 
away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into 
the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com- 
posed the following lines : , 



tup: broken heart. 



Ill 




1^ 



II 



MP 



(% 

i 

^ 



f 



She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 

And lovers around her are sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains. 
Every note which he loved awaking — 

Ah ! little they thiak, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died. 
They were all that to life had entwined liim — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind liim 

Oh ! make h^r a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
"When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. 
From her own loved island of sorrow 




aj; — ^^Z ^- ^ 







S:,^. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKeG. 



" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence to steal dead 
men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers?" 

Burton's Anatomy of Mklancholy. 




HAVE often wondered at tlie extreme 
fecundity of the press, and how it comes 
to pass that so many heads, on which na- 
ture seemed to have inflicted the curse of 
barrenness, should teem with voluminous 
productions. As a man travels on, how- 
ever, in the journey of life, his objects of 
wonder daily diminish, and he is continu- 
ally finding out some very simple cause 
for some great matter of marvel. Thus 
have I chanced, in my peregrinations about 
this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded 
to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at 
once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering throue^h the great saloons 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. H;3 

of the Britisli Museum, with that listlessness with which one 
is apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather; some- 
times lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes study- 
ing the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes 
tr^-ing, with nearly equal success, to comprehend the alle- 
gorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing 
al)out in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant 
door, at the end of a suit of apartments. It was closed, but 
every now and then it would open, and some strange-favored 
l>eing, generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide 
through the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding 
objects. There was an air of mystery about this that j^iqued 
my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage 
of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions beyond. 
IMie door yielded to my hand, with that facility with which the 
portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight- 
errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded 
with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just 
under the cornice, were arranged a great number of black-look- 
ing portraits of ancient authors. Aljout the room were placed 
long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat 
many pale, studious personages, poring intently over dusty 
volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking- 
copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned 
through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might 
hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the 
deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to 
turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that 
hollowness and flatulency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write something 
on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar 
18 



lU 



TIIK SKETCH BOOK. 




would appeal', take the paper in profound silence, glide out of 
the room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon 
which the other would fall tooth and nail with famished vorac- 
ity. I had no longer a doul)t that I had happened upon a body 
of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The 
scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher 
shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, 
which opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits of 
the place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so 
that at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more 
swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden 
lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and 
to control the powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of 
the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged 
an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words 



THE AKT OF BOOK-MAKING. 215 

were sufficient for the purpose. I found that these nivsterious 
personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally 
authors, and in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in 
fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library — an im- 
mense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of 
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read : 
one of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature to which 
modern authors repair, and draw Tjuckets full of classic lore, or 
"pure English, undetiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty 
rills of thouo-ht. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, 
and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed 
one lean, biliousdooking wight, who sought none but the most 
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently 
constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be 
purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, 
placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open 
upon his tal)le ; Imt never read. I observed him, now and then, 
draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; 
whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to 
keep off" that exhaustion of the stomach, produced by much 
pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than 
myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, 
who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with 
his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recog- 
nized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which 
l)ustled oft' well with the ti'ade. I was curious to see how he 
manufactured his wares. He made more stir and show of 
business than any of the others; dipping into various books, 



llg THE SKETCH BOOK. 

fluttering over the leaves of manuscrij^ts, taking a morsel out 
of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon 
precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his 
book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' 
cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, 
toe of frog, and blind- worm's sting, with his own gossip poured 
in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley "slab and good." 
After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes; may it not be the 
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of 
knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in 
spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they were 
first produced ? We see that nature has wisely, though whim- 
sically, provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime to 
clime, in the maws of certain birds : so that animals, which, in 
themselves, are little better than carrion, and apparently the 
lawless plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact, 
nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In 
like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and ob- 
solete authors are caught up by these flights of predatory 
writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a re- 
mote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, 
undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new 
forms. What was formerly a ponderous history revives in 
the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern 
play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for 
a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in 
the clearing of our American M^oodlands ; where we burn down 
a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in 
their place, and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree 
mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



117 



Let us not, tlien, lament over tlie (Tecay and oblivion into 
whicli ancient writers descend; they do Ijut suLinit to the 
great law of nature which declares that all sid)lunary shapes 
of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which de- 
crees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Genera- 
tion after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes 
away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and 
the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget 
authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good 
old age they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the 
authors who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had 
leaned my head agaiiist a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to tlie soporific emanations from these works ; 
or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky habit of nap- 
ping at improper times and places, with which I am grievously 
afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my 
imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene re- 
mained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of 
the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with 
the portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was in- 
creased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in place of the 
sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may 
be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off clothes, 
Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized upon a l)ook, by one 
of those incongruities common to dreams, methought it turned 
into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they 
proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no 
one pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but 
took a sleeve from one, a cape from anotlier, a skirt from a 



IIQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his 
original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed 
ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. 
He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of 
the old fathers, and having |)urloined the gray beard of another, 
endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking com- 
mon-place of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of 
wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied eml)roider- 
ing a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several 
old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another 
had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu- 
script, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The 
Paradise of Daintie Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sid- 
ney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off witli an exquis- 
ite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny di- 
mensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils 
from several obscure tracts of })liilosophy, so that he had a 
very imposing front ; Init he was lamentably tattered in rear, 
and I perceived that he had patched his small-clothes with 
scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only 
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their 
own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to 
contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe 
their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I 
grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves from 
top to toe in the patch-work manner I have mentioned. I shall 
not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, 
and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the 
pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. ng 

classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Ee- 
gent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons 
from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one 
side, went about witli a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, "l)al)bling 
about green fields." But the personage that most struck mj 
attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, 
with a remarkably large and square, but bald head. He entered 
the room wheezing and pufling, ell)owed his way through the 
throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid 
hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and 
swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves !" I looked, 
and lo ! the portraits al:)out the wall became animated ! The 
old authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the 
canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley 
throng, and then descended with fury in their eyes, to claim 
their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubljub 
that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits en- 
deavored in vain to escape with their plunder. (Jn one side 
might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern pro- 
fessor; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the 
ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, 
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and 
sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer 
with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of 
farragoes, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself 
in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as 
fierce a contention of claimants al)out him, as about the dead 
body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I 
had been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain 



120 THE SKETCH book. 

to steal off with setirce a rag; to cover their nakedness. Just 
then my eve was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in 
the Greek grizzled wig, who was scraml)ling away in sore 




affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! 
They were close u})on his haunches : in a twinkling off went 
his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away; 
until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk 
into a little, pursy, "chopped bald shot," and made his exit 
witli only a few tali's and rau's flutterin"' at his Ijack. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



121 



There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this 
learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, 
which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle 
were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. 
The old authors shrunk back into their picture -frames, and 
hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found 
myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of 
book- worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the 
dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never 
before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the 
ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether 
I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, 
but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " pre- 
serve," subject to game-laws, and that no one must presume to 
hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, 
I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to 
make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of 
authors let loose upon me. 
19 




A ROYAL POET. 




lordly 



"Though your body be confined, 
And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear." 

Fletcher. 

N a soft, sunny morning in the genial month of 
May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. 
It is a place full of storied and poetical associa- 
tions. The very external aspect of the proud old 
pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its 
irregular walls and massiye towers, like a mural 
crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, wayes its 
royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a 
air, upon the surrounding world. 



A ROYAL POET. 



123 



On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal 
kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tem- 
perament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to 
quote poetry and dream of beaut}^ In wandering through the 
magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, 
I passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors 
and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the 
likenesses of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles 
the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, 
half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I Ijlessed the 
pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask- 
in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large 
green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and 
glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with 
the image of the tender, the gallant, l)ut hapless Surrey, and 
his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, 
when enamored of the Lady Greraldine — 

' With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower. 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibili4;y, I visited the ancient 
Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride 
and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years 
of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray 
tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pres- 
ervation. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the 
other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the 
interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons 
of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging 
against the wall, which had once belonged to James. Hence I 
was conducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded 



124 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



magnificence, hung witli storied tapestry, wliich formed his 
prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, 
which has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of 
poetry and fiction. 




The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from 
home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French 
court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure 
from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house 
of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the 
two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many 



II 



A ROYAL POET. 



125 



sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his uuliappy father. " The 
news," we are told, "was brought to him while at supper, and 
did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to 
give up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended 
him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from 
all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief at Rothe- 
say."* 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but 
though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all 
the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and 
to give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed 
proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment 
was an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more 
exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which 
have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
liim in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captiva- 
ting, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than 
of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 
'' to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing 
and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing 
both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, 
and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry, "f 

With this combination of manl}^ and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and 
calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it 
must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, 
to pass the spring-time of his 3^ears in monotonous captivity. 

* Biifliauaii. f Halleiideii's Translation of Hector Boycc. 



X2fi THE SKETCH BOOK. 

It was the good fortune of James, bowever, to be gifted with, a 
powerful poetic fancy, and to he visited in his prison by the 
choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and 
grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow 
mor])id and irritable; l)ut it is the nature of the poet to become 
tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the 
captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody : 

"Plave you not seen the nightingale, 
A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she ehant her wonted tale, 
In thar her lonely hermitage! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove."* 

Indeed, it is the divine attriljute of the imagination, that it is 
irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, 
it can create a world for itself, and, with a necromantic power, 
can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, 
to make solitude })opu]ous, and irradiate the gloom of the dun- 
geon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived 
round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived 
the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the 
"King's Quair," composed by James, during his captivity at 
Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the 
soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beau- 
fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the 
blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the 
course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is that 

* Roger L' Estrange. 



A ROYAL POET. 



127 



it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's true feel- 
ings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not 
often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. 
It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to find a mon- 
arch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, and 
seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It 
is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competition, 
which strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings 
the candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges 
him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. It is 
curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to 
find the simple aftections of human nature throbbing under the 
ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a 
king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company 
of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley 
with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and 
had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety 
of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a 
poem as the Quair. 

1 have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, 
or which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They 
have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the 
captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, 
and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the 
poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night ; 
the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the liigh vault of 
heaven: and ''Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." 
He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile 



128 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consola- 
tions of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that 
day, and which had been translated by his great prototype 
Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is 
evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison : 
and indeed it is an admirable text-book for meditation under 
adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, puri- 
fied by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in 
calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of elo- 
quent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear 
up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the 
unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good 
King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his 
mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness 
of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that 
had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he 
hears the bell ringing to matins ; but its sound, chiming in 
with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhort- 
ing him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he 
determines to comply with this intimation : he therefore takes 
pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore a ben- 
ediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There 
is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting 
as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple 
manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes 
awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the pe- 
culiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive 
life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, 
in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is 



A ROYAL POET. 



129 



a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the 
lamentations of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the 
indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is noth- 
ing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a natural 
and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching 
by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elabo- 
rate and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in 
poetry — the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries 
of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an un- 
offending world. James speaks of his privations with acute 
sensibility ; but, having mentioned tliem, passes on, as if his 
manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 
AVhen such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, 
we are aware how great must be the suffering that extorts the 
murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and 
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all 
the enterprise, the nol)le uses, and vigorous delights of life ; as 
we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories 
of art, when he breathes forth Ijrief but deep-toned lamentations 
over his perpetual blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy 
reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of 
his story ; and to contrast with that refulgence of liglit and 
loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, 
and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, witli which 
he ushers in the lady of his lieart. It is this scene, in particu- 
lar, whicli throws all the magic of romance about the old Castle 
Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to cus- 
tom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. 
''Bewailing in his chamber thus alone,"' despairing of all joy 
20 



130 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and remedy, "fortired of thought and wobegone," he had wan- 
dered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace 
of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. 
The window looked forth ujDon a small garden which lay at the 
foot of the tower. It was a quiet, slieltered spot, adorned with 
arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by 
trees and hawthorn hedges : 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall. 

A garden faire, and in the corners set 
An arbour green with wandis long and small 

Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 

That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 

That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 

Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
And midst of every arbour might be sene 

The sharps, grene, swete juniper. 
Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 

That as it seemed to a lyf without, 

The boughs did spread the arbour all abou1 . 

And on the small grene twistisf set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and svmg 
So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom ; 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
of his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun. 
And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

* Lyf, person. -j- Tivistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



A ROYAL POET. ^3;[ 

As he gazes on tlie scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, 
lie gradually relapses into one of those tender and undefinable 
reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. 
He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often 
read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening 
breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. 
If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus gener- 
ally dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone 
cut off" from its enjoyments? 

Oft would I thiuk, Lord, what may this be. 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 
Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 

Is it of him, as we in books do find : 

May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd: 
Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 
Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For giff lie be of so grete excellence, 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt f to him, or done offense, 

That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large V 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure" that ever he 
had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited 
susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sov- 
ereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and 
Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the 

* Setten, incline. f Gilt, wliat injury liave I done, etc. 



132 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



f^^^^^-^ 




garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual 
fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have 
induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His descrijDtion of 
the Lady Jane is given in tlie picturesque and minute manner 
of his master; and, being doubtless taken from the life, is a 
perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells, with the 
fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net 
of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined 
her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small orfevefye''* 



Wroug-ht Kold- 



A ROYAL POET. 



133 



about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, 
that seemed, he says, hke a spark of hre burning upon her white 
bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her 
to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two fe- 
male attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated 
with bells ; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite sym- 
metry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashion- 
able dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a 
burst of general eulogium : 

lu her was 3'outli, beauty, with humble iKtrt, 

Bounty, richesse, ami womanly feature : 
God better knows then my pen can report, 

"Wisdom, largesse,* estate, f and cunning J sure. 
In every point so guided her measure. 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 

That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to 
this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous 
illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold 
more intolerable by this passing Ijeani of unattainable beauty. 
Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had "bade farewell to eveiy leaf and flower," be 
still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 
stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, 
gradually lulled hy the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, 
he lapses, "half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which oc- 
cupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically 
shadowed out the history of his passion. 

* Largesse, bounty. | Estate, digniiy. ^ Cunniwj, discretion. 



184 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 




When he wakes from Jiis trance, he rises from his stony pil- 
low, and, pacing his aj)artment, full of dreary reflections, ques- 
tions his spirit, whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, 
all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, in- 
tended to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the 
latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the 
promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, 
a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the 
window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch 
of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of 
gold, the foUowins; sentence : 



A ROYAL POET. ^35 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingiecl iiope and dread ; reads 
it with rapture : and tliis, he says, was the first token of his suc- 
ceeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by 
intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 
flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, and made 
happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love- 
adventures in Windsor Castle. ■ How much of it is absolute 
fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to 
conjecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic incident 
as incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet 
at his word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem 
immediately connected with the tower, and have passed over a 
large joart, written in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at 
that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, 
so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely 
be perceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to be 
charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness 
and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of 
nature too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, 
a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated 
periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser 
thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy 
which pervade it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest 



IgQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its 
chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. In- 
deed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters ; 
and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity to 
their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There 
are always,' however, general features of resemblance in the 
works of contemporary authors, which are not so much bor- 
rowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, 
toll their sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their 
own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ; 
and thus each generation has some features in common, charac- 
teristic of the age in which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary 
history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participa- 
tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name 
of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in si- 
lence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little 
constellation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine 
in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning 
stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish his- 
tory (thougli the manner in which it has of late been woven with 
captivating fiction has made it a universal study), may be curi- 
ous to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and 
the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it 
was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it 
being imagined by the court that a connection with the blood 
royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was 



A ROYAL POET. 



137 



ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having previously 
espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and 
made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chief- 
tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities 
of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their pos- 
sessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. 
James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections 
of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the 
reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administration 
of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and the pro- 
motion of every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, 
and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. 
He mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise ; 
visited their firesides ; entered into tlieir cares, their pursuits, 
and their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, 
and how they could best be patronized and improved ; and was 
thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye 
over the meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous 
manner made himself strong in the • hearts of the common peo- 
ple, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; 
to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had 
usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; 
and to Ijring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. 
For some time they bore this Math outward submission, but 
with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspirac}' 
was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was 
liis own uncle, Eobert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too 
old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated 
his grandson. Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Gra- 
ham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They bi'oke 
21 



138 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

into liis bedcliamber, at the Dominican Convent, near Perth, 
where he was residing, and barbarously murdered liim by oft- 
repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her 
tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in 
the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it 
was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that 
the murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, 
and of the golden little poem which had its Ijirthplace in this 
Tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common 
interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt 
and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the 
image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my 
imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had 
composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeav- 
ored to persuade myself it was the ver}^ one where he had been 
visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had 
first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous 
month ; the birds were again vying with each other in strains 
of liquid melody ; every thing was bursting into vegetation, and 
budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which 
delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, 
seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and 
love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centu- 
ries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of 
the Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of the Keep ; 
and though some parts have been separated b}'^ dividing walls, 
yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the 
days of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. 
There is a charm about a spot that has been printed by the foot- 
steps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations 



A K()YAL POET. 



139 



of the poet, wIucIl is heightened, rather than impaired, l)v the 
lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every 
place in which it moves ; to breathe around nature an odor 
more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over 
it a tint more masrical than the blush of mornine:. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- 
rior and a legislator; but I have delighted to view him merelv 
as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of 
poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first 
to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, 
which has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and 
highly-flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner 
regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refine- 
ment. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen 
to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine 
the character of a })cople, and wreathe a grace round the lofti- 
ness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, 
which, unfortunatel}- for the fulness of his lame, are now lost to 
the world ; one, which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk 
of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself ac- 
quainted with the rustic sports and pastimes which constitute 
such a source of kind and social feelina^ anions;- the Scottish 
peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he could 
enter into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve 
the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment, and 
elegant taste, are said to exist in those witching airs, still 2')iped 
among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
has thus connected his image with whatever is most gracious 
and endearing in the national character ; he has embalmed his 
raemorv in sona;, and floated his name to after-ages in the rich 



140 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



streams of Scottish melod}^ The recollection of these things 
was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his im- 
prisonment, I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm 
as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I liave never 
felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old 
Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the 
romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet of Scot- 
land. 



!!«-_-== 



U^ 





pcai 



'^3~. THE COUNTKY CHUIiCH. .M ^ - - ^ 

" A gentleman ! 
Wliat, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or hsts of velvet ? which is't, pound or yard, 
Yon vend your gentry liy?" 

Beggar's Brsii. 

HERE are few places more fovorable to tlic study 
of character than an English countr\' church. I 
was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a 
friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the ap- 
iuce of which particularly sti'Uck my fancy. It was one of 




142 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

those ricli morsels of quaint antiquity wliich give such a pecu- 
liar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a 
country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its 
cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble gen- 
-erations. The interior walls were incrusted with monuments 
of every age and style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained 
glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights 
and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effi- 
gies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck with 
some instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial 
which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
temple of the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- 
nished with riclily-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their 
arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
tilled the back-seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of 
the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who 
had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged 
guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the 
keenest fox-hunter in the country ; until age and good living- 
had disabled him from doing any thing more than ride to see 
the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to 
get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place ; so, 
having, like many other feeble Christians, com|)romised with my 
conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
person's threshold. I occupied myself by making observations 
on mv neiahbors. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



U3 



I was as yet a stranger in England, and cnrions to notice the 
manners of its ftishionable classes. I found, as usual, that there 
was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged 
title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the 
family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons 
and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming 
than their appearance. The}^ generally came to church in the 
plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would 
stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, 
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cot- 
tagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with 
an expression of high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank 
cheerfulness and an engaging aflfabilit3\ Their brothers were 
tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
simply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any 
mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy 
and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness which 
bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked in their 
growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthi'ul hardiness 
about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion 
with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is 
morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was 
pleased to see the manner in which they would converse with 
the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in 
which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these 
conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one part, 
nor servility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the 
difference of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who 
had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased the estate 
and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was 



14:4: THE SKETCH BOOK. 

endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an liereditary 
lord of the soil. The flimily always came to church en prince. 
They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned 
with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A 
fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen 
wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, 
with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous 
liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled be- 
hind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with 
peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their 
bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly 
than common horses ; either because they had caught a little 
of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than or- 
dinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-j^ard. There 
was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall 
— a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling of 
horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain-glory to the 
coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of vil- 
lagers sauntering quietly to church, opened jorecipitately to the 
right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the 
gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced 
an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on 
earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 



THE COUNTRY CIIUECH. 



145 



..X^ 




round, red face from out the door, looking about him with the 
pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, 
but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of 
broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with 
her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about 
her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feast- 
ing. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord 
Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- 
tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled 
admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They 

99 



146 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, tliougli no one could deny 
tlie richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might 
be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They 
descended loftily from the carriage, and moved wp the line of 
peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over 
the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- 
ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant 
courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they 
were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who 
came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They 
were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedan- 
try of dress which marks the man of questionable jDretensions 
to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one 
askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to 
respectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the 
exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved arti- 
ficially ; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the 
day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and free- 
dom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men 
of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. 
They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common 
purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption 
which is never seen in the true gentleman, 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great, 
and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless 
it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I have re- 



THK COUNTRY CllUrvCII. 



147 



marked in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that 
the very highest classes are always the most courteous and 
unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing- 
are least apt to trespass on that of others ; whereas nothing is so 
offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate 
itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

lis I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice 
their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was 
quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have 
any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, 
and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, 
on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper; they 
betrayed a continiial consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambi- 
tion of beino- the wonders of a rural cono-rewation. 

o O o 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon 
himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with 
a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It' was 
evident that he was one of those thorough church and king men 
who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the 
Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 
" a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by 
way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though 
so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I 
have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of 
charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro- 
nouncing it "excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the 
several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their 



148 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the 
fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The 
others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were 
the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering 
of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the vil- 
lagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a 
cloud of dust ; and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in 
a whirlwind. 





THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



" Pittie olde age, within wliose silver liaires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd.'' 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

HOSE who nre in the hal;)it of remarking 
such matters, must have noticed the pas- 
sive quiet of an English landscape on 
Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the 
regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the 
din of the l)lacksmith's hammer, the whis- 
'"^ tling of the ploughman, the rattling of 
the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor, are suspended. 
The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, l)eing less disturbed 
by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the 
23 




150 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its 
fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed 
calm. 

" Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky." 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day 
of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, 
has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, 
and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up 
within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a 
country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I 
experience nowhere else ; and, if not a more religious, I think 
I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the 
seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently 
to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its 
mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken j)anelling, all reverend 
with the gloom of de^^arted years, seemed to fit it for the haunt 
of solemn meditation : but being in a wealthy, aristocratic neigh- 
borhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctu- 
ary ; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world 
by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The 
only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly 
to feel the liuml:)le and prostrate })icty of a true Christian was a 
poor, decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years 
and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than 
abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible 
in her appearance. Her dress, though humljle in the extreme, 
was scrnpulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been 
awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
poor, but sat alone on the ste})s of the altar. She seemed to 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. ^5| 

luive survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to Lave 
nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her 
feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer ; haljitnallv 
conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failint"- 
eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidentlv 
knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the 
clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was 
so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It 
stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful 
bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew-trees 
which seemed almost coeval with itself Its tall Gothic spire 
shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gen- 
erally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny 
morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. 
They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners 
of the churchyard ; where, from the number of nameless graves 
around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were 
huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave 
was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating 
on the distinctions of worldly rank, A\diich extend thus down 
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach 
of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which 
pride had nothing to do. A cofl&n of the plainest materials, 
without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villa- 
gers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; 
but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the 
corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old 



152 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 




woman wliom I bad seen seated on tlie steps of the altar. She 
was supported by a bumble fiiend, who was endeavoring to 
comfort her, A few of the neighboring poor had joined the 
train, and some children of the village were running hand in 
hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to 
gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
frmn the clnircli j torch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayerd^ook 



THE WIDOW AND IIER SON. 3^53 

in baud, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was 
a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and 
the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, 
in form, but coldly and unfeelingl}^ The well-fed priest moved 
but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely 
be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, 
that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid 
mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. 
On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George 
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, 
as if in prayer ; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the 
body, and a convulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing 
on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's 
heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the 
feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones 
of business; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, 
at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most wither- 
ing. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a 
wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about 
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to 
lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke 
into an agony of grief The poor woman who attended her 
took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, 
and to whisper something like consolation : " Nay, now — nay, 
now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake 
lier head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

xVs thev lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of tlie 
24 



154 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

cords seemed to agonize her ; but wlien, on some accidental ob- 
struction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of 
the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who 
was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my 
eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part 
in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal an- 
guish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I 
remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart 
ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! 
they have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to 
divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the 
young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound — 
their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green 
and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the 
sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe 
— the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a win- 
try day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the 
sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an 
only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows 
which make us feel the impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way 
homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : 
she was just I'eturning from accompanying the mother to her 
lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con- 
nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



155 



bv various niral occupations, and the assistance of a small gar- 
den, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and 
led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had 
grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said 
the good woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, 
so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It 
did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his 
best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm 
tlian on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be joroud 
of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, 
and carried oft* to sea. His parents received tidings of his 
seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the 
loss of their main prop. The father, who was already iniirm, 
grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The 
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer 
support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a 
kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain 
respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one ap- 
plied for the cottage, in which she had passed so many happy 
days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary 
and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly 
supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which 
the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was 
but a few days before the time at which these circumstances 
were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her 
repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden 



15(3 THE ^iKETClI BOOK. 

suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be look- 
ing eagerly and wildly ai'ound. He was dressed in seaman's 
clotLes, was emaciated and gbastl}^ pale, and bore tbe air of one 
broken by sickness and hardsbips. He saw ber, and hastened 
toward ber, but bis steps were fiiint and faltering ; be sank on 
bis knees before ber, and sobbed like a cbild. The poor woman 
gazed upon liim witli a vacant and wandering eye — "Ob, my 
dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy, 
George?" It was indeed tbe wreck of her once noble lad, who, 
shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, 
bad, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose 
among tbe scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail tbe particulars of such a meeting, 
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he was 
alive ! he was come home ! be miglit yet live to comfort and 
cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; 
and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, 
tbe desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. 
He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother 
had passed many a sleepless night, and be never rose from it 
again. 

Tbe villagers, when they heard that George Somers had re- 
turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance 
that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, 
to talk — bo could only look bis thanks. His mother was bis 
constant attendant ; and be seemed unwilling to be helped by 
any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down tbe pride 
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced 
life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary 



THE WIDOW AxND IIEK SON. 




1)0(1 in tlie neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; l)iit lias 
thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that 
smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? 
Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to 
her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is 
neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
weakened by worthlessness, nor stilled by ingratitude. IShe will 
sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender 
every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
exult in his prosperity: — and, if misfortune overtake him, he 
will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if disgrace settle 
upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his 
disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all 
the w^orld to him. 

Poor Ueoro'e Souiers had known what it w;is to he in sick- 



158 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



ness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to 
visit liim. He could not endure his mother from his sight ; if 
she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for 
hours by his Ijed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he 
would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until 
he saw her bending over him : when he would take her hand, 
lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a 
child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was 
to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniar}' 
assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on in- 
qvLuj, that the good feelings of the villagei's had prompted them 
to do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know 
best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to 
intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an eftbrt to put on something like mourning 
for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this 
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black 
ribbon or so — a faded l:)lack handkerchief, and one or two more 
such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief 
which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied 
monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with 
which grandeur mourned magnificently over clejmrted pride, and 
turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at 
the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of 
a pious though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument 
of real grief was worth them all. 
• I related her storv to some of the wealtliv members of the 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



159 



congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- 
selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lio-hten 
her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to 
the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was 
missed from her usual seat at church ; and before I left the 
neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she 
had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she 
loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
are never parted. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON; 




N a preceding paper I have spoken of an Englisli 
^ Sunda}^ in tlie country, and its tran- 
(^ quillizing effect upon the landscape ; 
but wliere is its sacred influence 
\j/^ more strikingly apparent than in 
the very heart of that great Babel, 
London ? On this sacred day, the gi- 
gantic monster is charmed into repose. 
The intolerable din and struggle of the 
%) '^^^^Jr\'^^* week are at an end. The shops are shut. 
The fires of forges and manufactories are extin- 
guished; and the sun, no longer obscured by 
murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, 
yellow radiance into the cpiiet streets. The few 
pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward 
with anxious countenances, move leisurely along ; 
their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of busi- 
ness and care ; they have put on their Sunday looks and Sunday 
manners with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as 
well as in person. 

i^nd now the melodious clangor of bells from church-towers 
summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his 



■Part of a sketch omitted in tlie preceding editions. 



A SUNDAY L\ LONDON. 



IHl 



uuiusioii tlie laiuily oi' the decent truderiinan, the small eliildreu 
ill the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed 
by the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer- 
books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The 
housemaid looks after them from the window, admirino- the 
linery of the fiimily, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile 
from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, 
peradventure an alderman or a sheritf ; and now the patter of 
many feet announces a procession of charity-scholars, in uni- 
forms of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his 
arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the car- 
riage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the 
flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by -lanes 
and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps 
watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanc- 
tuary. For a time every thing is hushed ; but soon is heard 
the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and "^'ibrating 
through the empty lanes and courts ; and the sweet chanting of 
the choir making them resound with melody and praise. Never 
ha\'c I been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church 
music, than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river 
of joy, througli the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, ele- 
vating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of the week ; 
and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of triumphant 
harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again 

alive with the congregations returning to their homes, but soon 

again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, 

which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some importance. 

25 



1(J2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the board. Mem- 
bers of the family can now gather together, who are separated 
by the laborious occupations of the week. A school-boy may 
be permitted on that day to come to tlie paternal home ; an old 
friend of the family takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the 
board, tells over his well-known stories, and rejoices young and 
old with his well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon, the city pours forth its legions to 
breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and 
rural environs. Satirists may say what they please about the 
rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me 
there is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of 
the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once a 
week and throw himself upon the green bosom of Nature. He 
is like a child restored to the mother's breast ; and they who 
first spread out these noble j^ai'ks and magnificent pleasure- 
grounds which surround this huge metropolis, have done at least 
as much for its health and morality as if they had expended the 
amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 



Tlll^: BIUR'S HEAD TAVERN. EAS'ITHEAK 

A SHAKSPEAKIAN KESEAKCII. 

'• A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. 1 jiaw 

heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say. that 

it was an old proverb Avhen Ids great-grandfather was a rliild. that "it was a 

. r R'ood wind that blew a man to 

^ r s ^ 

'rCi (it^j^Q- y tlie wine.'" 

X -S^^ ^■^y'^^< 'i>-=i, MOTHEil BOIIBIE. 




<p-. 



U lb ci piOLib custom, ill some Catliolie countries, to 
honor tlie memory of saints by votive lights burnt 
before their pictures. The popularity 
of a saint, therefore, may be known by 
the number of these offerings. One, 
perhaps, is left to moulder in the dark- 
ness of his little chapel ; another may 
have a solitary lamj) to throw its blink- 
ing ravs athwart his effigy ; while the 
whole blaze of adoration is lavished at 
the shrine of some beatified father of 
renown. The wealthy devotee brings 
his huge luminary of wax; the eager 
zealot his seven-branched candlestick; 
and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that 
sufficient light is thrown ujion the deceased, unless he hangs up 



1(34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Lis little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in tlie 
eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have 
occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of coun- 
tenance by the officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 
Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some 
l^ortion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from 
oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast 
tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send up 
mists of obscurity from tlieir notes at the l:)ottom of each page ; 
and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy 
or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, 
I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the 
memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, 
sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I 
found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; 
every doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, 
and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine 
passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; 
nav, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with 
panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to 
find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, 
when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV.. 
and was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry 
of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these 
scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency 
are the characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the 
mind with the fiicts and personages of real life. To few readers 
does it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



iHo 




and tliat, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever 
enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my i^art I love to give myself np to the illusions of po- 
(^try. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valual;)le to 
me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since : and, 
if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties 
of human nature, I would not give np flit Jack for half the great 
men of ancient clirouiclc. What have the heroes of yore done 
for me, or men like me? They have conquered countries of 



]^(j(3 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

^vhicll I <1(> not enjoy an acre.; ov tliev have gainctl lanrels of 
wliicli I do not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished exaniph:^s 
of hair-brained prowess, whicli I have neitlier tlie opportunity 
nor the inclination t(^ follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! — kind 
Jack Falstalf ! — sweet Jack Falstatf ! — has enlarged the liounda- 
ries of human enjoyment; he has added vast regions of wit and 
good humor, in which the poorest man may revel ; and has he- 
queathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laugliter, to make 
mankind merrier and Ijctter to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenlv struck me : " I will make a ])ili''rimaii'e to 
Eastcheap," said I, closing the hook, "'and see if the old Boar's 
Head Tavern still exists. AVho knows l)ut I may light npon 
some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests? At 
any rate, there will he a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls 
once vocal with their mirth, to tliat the toper enjoys in smelling 
to the empty cask once Idled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. 
I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I en- 
countered in my ti'avels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; 
of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; 
what perils I ran in Cateaton-street and old Jewry ; of the I'e- 
nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and 
wonder of the city, and the terror of all luducky urchins; and 
how I visited Loudon Stone, and struck' my statf upoji it, in 
imitation of that arch-rebel, Jack Cade. 

Let it suflhce to say, that I at length ai'rived in merry East- 
cheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very 
names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane 
bears testimony, even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says 
old Stowc, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The 
cookes cried hot ril)l)es of beef roasted, pies well Ijaked, and 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVEKiS', EA8TC11EA1'. 1{\J 

other victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, liarpe, pipe, 
and sawtrie." Alas! how satlly is the scene changed since the 
roaring days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster 
has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of 
pots and the sonnd of " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts 
and the accursed dinging of the dustman's l)ell ; and no song is 
heard, save haply the strain of some siren from Billingsgate, 
chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, fn^ the ancient ahode of Dame Quiclcly. 
The- only relic of it is a Ijoar's head, carved in relief in stone, 
which formerly served as the sign, but at present is liuilt into 
tlie parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the 
renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little al)odc of good fellowship, I was 
referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been 
born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the 
indisputable chronicler of the neigliborhood. I found her seated 
in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a 
yard al:)0ut eight feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while a 
glass door opposite alforded a distant peep of the street, through 
a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two ^'iews, which com- 
prised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little 
world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her l)ein<>", 
for the lietter part of a centuiy. 

To be versed in the history of Easteheap, givat and little, 
from Lond(^n Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in 
her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. 
Yet, with all this, slie possessed the simplieit}' of true wisdom, 
and that liberal, communicative disposition, which I have gener- 
ally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the eoneerns 
of theii- neiii'hl'orhood. 



IQ^ THE 8KETCH BOOK. 

Jler information, liowevei', did not extend Ihr back into anti- 
(juitv. She conld throw no ligbt upon the history of the Boar's 
Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant 
Pistol, until the great fire of London, wlien it was unfortunately 
burnt down. It was soon reljuilt, and continued to flourish un- 
der the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with 
remorse for double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities, 
which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to 
make his peace with Heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. 
Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, toward the supporting of a 
chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly 
held there ; but it was observed that the old Boar never held up 
his head under church government. He gradually declined, and 
finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. Tlie tavern 
was then turned into shops ; but she intbrmed me that a picture 
of it was still preser\^ed in St. Michael's Church, which stood 
just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my 
determination ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the 
sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, 
my visit having doubtless raised greatly lier opinion of her le- 
gendary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history 
of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and nmcli curious inquiry", to ferret 
out the huml)le hanger-on to the church. I had to explore 
Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark 
passages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient 
cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length 1 traced 
him to a corner of a small court surrounded by lofty houses, 
where the inhal)itants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven 
as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing. 



Till-: BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCllEAP. H]g 

lowly habit: yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, 
if encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry ; 
such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the 
company of high churchwardens, and other mighty men of the 
earth. I found him in company with the deputy organist, seated 
apart, like Milton's angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doc- 
trinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly 
pot of ale — for the lower classes of English seldom d(diberate on 
any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to 
clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment when they 
had finished their ale and their argument, and were about to re- 
pair to the church to put it in order; so having made known my 
wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short 
distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many 
fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy 
of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the mon- 
ument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with 
as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as 
poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, wliile tlius speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also 
the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight, 
who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight. Wat Tyler, in 
Smithfield ; " a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the 

* Tli(_' following- was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy ; 
which. iinha]i]iily. was destroyed in the g-reat conriagration : 
'• Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
"William Walwortli eallyd by name: 
Fishmonger he was in lyti'time here. 
And twise LoimI Maior, ;is in books appeie: 

26 



170 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms — the sov- 
ereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific 
of all potentates. 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under 
the back window of w^hat was once the Boar's Head, stands the 
tombstone of Eobert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It 
is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor 
closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within 
call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from 
his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a mys- 
terious air, and informed me in a low voice, that once upon a 
time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howl- 
ing, and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and 
twirling weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out 
of their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their 
graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be air- 
ing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-knov/n 
call of "waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden 
appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish 



Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew intent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd." 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected bj- the venerable Stowe. 
"Whereas," saitli he, '"it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the 
rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord 
Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not W"at Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this 
rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The 
principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; 
the second was John, or Jack Straw," etc., etc. — Stowe's London. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. ^Tl 

clerk was singing a stave from the " mirre garland of Captain 
Death ;" to the discomfiture of sundrj^ train-band captains, and 
the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous 
Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth 
afterward, except in tlie way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for 
the autlienticity of tin's anecdote; thougli it is well known that 
the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very 
much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have 
heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards 
the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold 
sentinels almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been 
a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended 
upon the revels of Prince Hal; to have been equally prompt 
with his "anon, anon, sir;" and to have transcended his prede- 
cessor in honesty ; for Falstaff", the veracity of whose taste no 
man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting 
lime in his sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him 
for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and 
the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcrilie it for the admo- 
nition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spirit, 
who once frequented the Boar's Head : 

'• Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise. 

Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 

Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defv'd 

The charms of wine, and everj- one beside. 

reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 

Keep honest Preston dail_y in thy mind. 

He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 

Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 

You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 

Pray copj^ Bob in measure and attendance." 



172 



TIIK SKETCH BOOK. 



c-liui'cli. however, did not appear inucli ca])tivated by the sober 
virtues of the tapster; the deputy oi'gauist, who had a moist 
look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark ou the abstemi- 
ousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the 
little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and 
a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far mv researches, though they thi-ew much light on the 
historv of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 3'et disap- 
pointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the 
Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the 
church of St. Michael. " Marry and amen !" said I, " here end- 
eth my research !" So I was giving the matter up, with the air 
of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, pe^cei^'ing 
me to be curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, 
offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had 
been handed down from remote times, when the parish meetings 
were held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in tlie 
parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the decline of 
the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 
Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept 
by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of the estab- 
lishment. It is one of those little taverns which abound in the 
heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence 
of the neighborhood. We entered the l)ar-room, which was 
narrow and darkling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of 
reflected light are enabled to sti-uggle dowui to the inhabitants, 
whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room 
was partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with 
a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the 
guests were of the good old stamp, and divided. their day equaFy, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVEKN. EASTCHEAP. -[y;:^ 

for it wus but just one o'clock. At the lower end of tlie I'ooiu 
was a clear coal lii'e, before wliicli a breast of lamb was roastin<>- 
A row of bright l)rass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened 
along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one 
corner. There was something primitive in this medley of 
kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, 
and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but every 
thing had that look of order and neatness which besjDeaks the 
superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of 
amphibiousdooking beings, who might be either fisheraien or 
sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was 
a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I wais ushered into a little 
misshapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was 
lighted by a sky -light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, 
and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently 
appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gen- 
tleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, 
meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and wiih an 
air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame 
Iloneyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no 
bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses. Dame Quickly. 
She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige; and hur- 
rying up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious 
vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling 
and courtesying, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box, 
of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked 
at their stated meetings, since time immemorial; and which was 
never suffered to be profaned Ijy vulgar hands, or used on com- 
mon occasions. I received it with becomins; reverence; but 



174 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



what was inj delight, at beholding on its cover the identical 
painting of which I was in quest! There was displayed the 

outside of the Boar's Head Tav- 
ern, and before the door was to 
be seen the whole con- 
vivial group, at table, in 
full revel ; ])ictured with 
that ^^ onderful fidel- 
ity and force, with 
which the por- 
traits of re- 
' nowned 




generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for 
the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any 
mistake, the cunning limner had wearily inscribed the names of 
Prince Hal and Falstaft' on the bottoms of their chaii-s. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscrij^tion, nearly obliter- 
ated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Eichard Gore, 
for the use of the vestry meetings at tlie Boar's Head Tavern, 



THE BOAE'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



175 



and that it was "repaired and beautified l)y his successor, Mr. 
John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this 
august and venerable relic ; and I question whether the learned 
Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the 
Round Table the long-sought san-greal, with more exultation. 

"While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame 
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, 
put in my hands a drinking-cup or goblet, which, also l^elonged 
to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It 
bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, 
knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, 
being considered very " antjd^e." This last opinion was strength- 
ened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, 
and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant 
from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly roused from his medi- 
tation on the pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the 
goblet, exclaimed, "Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made 
that there article !" 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but 
there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiqua- 
rian research ; for I immediately perceived that this could ]3e no 
other than the identical "parcel-gilt goblet" on which Falstaff 
made his loving but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which 
would, of course, be treasured up with care among the reo-alia 
of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet 

* " Thou didst swear to me upon a parcd-gilt gohlet, sitting in my Dolphin cham- 
ber, at tlie round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsunweek, when 
the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou 
didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me. and make me 
iny lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ?" — Hp.nry TV.. Part 2. 



176 Tlli^ SKETCH liOOK. 

had been lianded down Ironi generation to generation. Slie also 
entertained me with many particulars concerning the wortliy 
vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the 
stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many 
commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. 
These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curi- 
ous in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, 
one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaif and his merry 
crew, actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several 
legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest 
frequenters of the Mason's Arms, whicli they give as transmitted 
down from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kasli, an Irish hair- 
dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, 
has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, 
with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further 
inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His 
head had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from 
the very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not see a 
tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing 
from a corner of his mouth. I follow^ed the direction of his eye 
through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully 
on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness 
before the fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recondite 
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. 
My bowels yearned witli sj'mpathv, and, putting in his hand a 
small token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with ji 
hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the Parish 
Club of Crooked Lane — not foi-getting my shaljby but senten- 
tious friend in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAF. ]_77 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interest- 
ing research, for whicli, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, 
I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, 
so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a, 
more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled 
the materials I have touched upon to a good merchantable bulk : 
comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, 
and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of 
St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; private 
anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and lier jjretty daughter, whom I 
have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending 
the breast of lamb (and whom, by-the-way, I remarked to be a 
comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle)— the whole enlivened 
by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated l:)y the great fire of 
London. 

All this I leave as a rich mine, to be worked by future com- 
mentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the 
"parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the 
subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of volumi- 
nous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the 
far-famed Portland vase. 
27 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEEATIIRE. 



A COLLOQUY IX WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

" I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And wliat by mortals iu this world is brought. 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
"With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 
That there is nothing lighter than mere praise." 

Drummond of Hawthorxdp;x. 



IlEEE are certain half-dreaming moods 
of mind, in "vvliicli we naturally steal 
away from noise and glare, and seek 
^ome quiet haunt, where we may in- 
dulge our reveries and build our air 
castles undisturbed. In such a mood I 
^^as loitering about the old gray cloisters 
of Westmin.ster Abbey, enjoying that lux- 
m\ of wandering thought which one is 
apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; 
A\hcn --uddenly an interruption of madcap boys 
fiom Westminster School, playing at foot-ball, 
broke in upon the monastic stillness of the 
; ^ '. '- place, making the vaulted passages and mould- 
< " ering tombs echo with their merriment. I 
sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still 
deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the 




I 



iXr-^-^] 



7 






THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. ]^79 

vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me tbrongli 
a portal rick with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which 
opened upon a gloonw passage leading to the chapter-house and 
the chamber in which doomsday-book is deposited. Just with- 
in the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger 
applied a key ; it was double locked, and opened with some 
difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark, nar- 
row staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered the 
library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted bv a 
row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, 
and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. 
An ancient picture of some reverend dignitarj' of the church in 
his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a 
small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. 
They consisted princij)ally of old polemical writers, and were 
much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library 
was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand 
without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place 
seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was 
buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut wp 
from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then 
the shouts of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, 
and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly 
along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of mer- 
riment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away ; the 
bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the 
dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in 



j^^O THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a venerable elbow-eliair. Instead of reading, lunvevei-. 1 was 
beguiled bv the solemn, monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the 
place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old 
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, 
and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but 
consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, 
like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and 
moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust 
aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ! how many 
weary days ! how many sleepless nights! How have their au- 
thors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; 
shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more 
blessed flxce of nature ; and devoted themselves to painful re- 
search and intense reflection ! And all for what ? To occupy 
an inch of dusty shelf — to liave the titles of their works read 
now and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or 
casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even 
to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immor- 
tality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound ; like the tone 
of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the 
ear for a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then pass- 
ing away like a thing that was not ! 

While I sat, half murmuring, half meditating these unprofit- 
able speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was 
thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I acci- 
dentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, 
the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from 
a deep sleep ; then a husky hem ; and at length began to talk. 
At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, Ijeing much trou- 
bled l^y a cobweb which some studious spider had woven across 



THE ML'TABIl.ITV oF LlTEUATUlCK. 



181 




it; and having prol3a1)ly contracted a cold from long exposure 
to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, how- 
ever, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceed- 
ingly fluent, conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, 
was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what, in 
the present day, w()uld be deemed barbarous; but I shall en- 
'leavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. 

It liegan with railings aljout the neglect of the world — about 
merit beino- suffered to lanQ-uish in obscuritv, and other such 



J^,^9 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bit- 
terly that it had not been opened for more than two centuries ; 
that the dean only looked now and then into the library, some- 
times took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few 
moments, and then returned them to their shelves. " What a 
plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to 
perceive was somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they mean 
by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and 
watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a 
harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the dean? 
Books were written to give pleasure, and to be enjoyed ; and I 
would have a rule jDassed that the dean should pay each of us 
a visit at least once a year; or if he is not equal to the task, 
let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of West- 
minster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have 
an airing.' 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; ''you are not aware 
how much better you are otf than most books of your genera- 
tion. By being stored away in this ancient liljrary, you are 
like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which 
lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels; while the remains of 
your contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, 
have long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
" I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an 
abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like 
other great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped 
up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a 
prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with 
my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity 
of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEKATUKE. ^83 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " liud jou been left to the cir- 
culation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been 
no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well 
stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries can be at 
present in existence, and those few owe their longevity to 1)eiuo- 
immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, 
instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and 
gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to reli- 
gious establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and 
where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure 
to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your 
contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet with 
their works? what do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln? 
No one could have toiled harder than he for innnortality. He 
is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, 
as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, 
alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few frag- 
ments are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely 
disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Griral- 
dus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theolo- 
gian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he might shut 
himself up and write for posterity ; but posterit}^ never inquires 
after his labors. What of Henry of fluntingdon, who, besides 
a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt 
of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him ? 
What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his 
age in classical composition ? Of his three great heroic poems 
one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are 
Ivuown only to a few of the curious in literature : and as to his 
love-verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What 
is in current use of John Wallis. the Franciscan, who acquired 



IQ^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the name of the tree of life ? Of William of Malmesbuiy ; — of 
Simeon of Durham; — of Benedict of Peterborough; — of John 
Hanvill of St. Albans ;— of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how old 
do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long- 
before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that 
they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be 
forgotten ;^ but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press 
of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own 
native tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty 
in rendering them into modern phi-aseology.) 

"I cry your mercy," said I, ''for mistaking your age; but it 
matters little : almost all the writers of your time have likewise 
passed into forgetfulness : and De Worde's publications are mere 
literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability 
of language, too, on which jon found your claims to perpetuity, 
have Ijeen the fiallacious dependence of authors of every age, 
even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who 
wrote his history in rliymes of mongrel Saxon. f Even now 



* "In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endite. 
and have many noble thinges fultilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their 
l)oisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we 
have in hearying of Frenchmen's EngUshe." — Chaucer's Testament of Love 

f Ilohnshed, in his Chronicle, observes: "Afterwards, also, by deligent travell 
of Gefl'ry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and after 
them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, nionke of Berrie, our said toong was 
brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came vmto the type of 
perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, 
John Fox. and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the 
ornature of rlie same, to their great jiraise and immortal commendation." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. ^85 

many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled,' as if 
the language ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was 
not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually 
subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this whicli has 
made English literature so extremely mutable, and tlie reputa- 
tion l)uilt upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be commit- 
ted to something more permanent and unchangeable than such 
a medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing else, 
and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the 
vanity and exultation of tlie most popular writer. He linds tlie 
language in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, 
and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of 
fashion. lie looks back and beholds the eaily authors of his 
country, once the favorites of their day, sup})lanted by modern 
writers. A few short ages have covered them with obscurity, 
and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the 
bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his 
own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and 
held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow 
antiquated and obsolete; until it shall become almost as unin- 
telligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of 
those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. 
I declare," added I, with some emotion, ''when I contemplate a 
modern libraiy, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich 
gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep; like 
the good Xerxes, wlicn he surveyed his army, pranked out in 
all the splendor of military array, and reflected that in one hun- 
dred years not one of them would be in existence!" 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how 
it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old 
authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-davs but Sir Philip 
28 



IQQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Magis- 
trates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled John 

My-'" 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom 
you suppose in vogue, because they happened to l)e so when 
you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir 
Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly 
predicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble 
thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 
scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into oliscurity ; 
and even Lyl}^, though his writings were once the delight of a 
court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely 
known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote 
and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down, with nil 
their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of 
succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried 
so deep, that it is only now and then that some industrious 
diver after fragments of antiquity lirings up a specimen for the 
gratification of the curious. 

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this mutability of 
language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the 
world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from 
analogy, Ave daily behold the varied and beautiful tiibes of vege- 
tables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their succes- 
sors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be 

* "Live ever, sweete l)ooke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden- 
pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notiiy unto the world that thy writer was the 
secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest 
flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of 
Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in 
esse, and the paragon of excellency in print." — Harvey Pierce's Supererogation. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEKATUEE. 2g7 

a grievance instead of a blessing. Tlie eartli would groan with 
rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled 
wilderness. In like manner the works of genius and learning 
decline, and make way for subsequent productions. Language 
gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors 
who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, the creative 
powers of genius would overstock tlie world, and the mind would 
be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. For- 
merly there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. 
Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and 
laborious operation ; they were written either on parchment, 
which was expensive, so tliat one work was often erased to 
make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and 
extremely perishal)le. Authorship was a limited and unprofit- 
able craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude 
of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow 
and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To 
these circumstances it may, in some measure, Ije owing that we 
have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity ; tliat the 
fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern 
genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper 
and the press have put an end to all these restraints. They 
have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour 
itself into print, and diftuse itself over the whole intellectual 
world. The consequences are alarming. The stream of litera- 
ture has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — ex- 
panded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred 
manuscripts constituted a great lil)rar3^; l)ut what woidd you 
say to libraries such as actually exist, containing three or four 
hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the same time 
busy; and the press going on with feai-fully increasing activity. 



IgQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

to double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen 
mortality sliould break out among tlie progeny of tlio muse, 
now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for jiosterity. I 
fear the mere fluctuation of language will not l)e sufficient. 
Criticism may do much. It increases with the increase of liter- 
ature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population 
spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, thei-e- 
fore, should l)e given to tlie growth of critics, good or bad. But 
I fear all will l)e in vain; let criticism do what it may, writers 
will write, 2:)rinters will print, and the world will inevitably be 
overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment 
of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of pass- 
able information, at the present day, reads scarcely any tiling 
but reviews ; and before long a man of erudition will l)e little 
better than a mere walking catalogue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, "excuse my interruj^ting you, but I per- 
ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an 
author who was making some noise just as I left the world. 
His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. Ilie 
learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor, half-edu- 
cated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and 
had been obliged to run tlie country for deer- stealing. I think 
his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into ob- 
livion." 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that 
the literature of his period lias experienced a duration beyond 
the ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now 
and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, 
because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging prin- 
ciples of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATUEE. ][y9 

sometimes see on the banks of a stream; which, by their vast 
and dee}) roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and lay- 
ing hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil 
around them from being swept away by the ever-flowing current, 
and hold up many a neighboring plant, and perhaps worthless 
weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, whom 
we behold defying the encroachments of time, retaining in mod- 
ern use the language and literature of his day, and giving dura- 
tion to many an indifferent author, merely from having flourished 
in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assum- 
ing the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profu- 
sion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, 
almost bury the noble plant that upliolds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laugliter that 
had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpu- 
lency. " Mighty well !" cried he, as soon as he could recover 
breath, "mighty well! and so you would persuade me that the 
literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer- 
stealer ! by a man witliout learning ! l:)y a poet, forsooth — a 
poet!'' And here he wheezed forth another lit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, 
however, I pardoned, on account of liis having flourished in a 
less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up 
my jDoint. 

"Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers he 
has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from 
the head, Ijut he writes from the heart, and the heai't will always 
understand him. lie is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose 
features are always the same, and always interesting. Pj-ose- 
writers arc voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded 
29 



190 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



witli commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tedious- 
ness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or 
brilhant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest lan- 
guage. He illustrates them by ever}- thing tliat he sees most 
striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of 
human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, 
therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, 
of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose 
within a small compass the wealth of the language — its family 
jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to pos- 
terity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require 
now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the 
brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. 
Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What 
vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and aca- 
demical controversies ! what bogs of theological speculations ! 
what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do 
we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like l^eacons 
on their widely-separate heights, to transmit the pui'e light of 
poetical intelligence from age to age."* 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums u})(jn the 

* "Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skiU doth passe : 
And featly uyps tlie worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Whicli doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead." 

'^Iiurchijurd. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEEATURE. 



191 



poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused 
me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform 
me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a 
parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was 
silent ; the clasps were closed : and it looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or 
three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into further 
conversation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling collo- 
quy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd 
day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this moment 
been able to discover. 



RURiL FUNERALS. 



■Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more: 
The herbs that liave on them cold dew o' tlie night ; 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now wither'd; even so 
These herblets shaU, wliich we upon you strow." 

Cymbelixe. 

'^-I^J-r^s?^: MONG the beautifal aiul simple-hearted 
customs of rural life which still linger in 
some parts of England, are those of 
strewing flowers before the funerals, 
and planting them at the graves of 
"" departed friends. These, it is said, 

arc the remains of some of the rites of the 
primitive chnrch ; but they are of still liigh- 
er antiquity, having been observed among 
the Greeks and Romans, and frequently 
w mentioned by their writers, and were, no 
doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered af- 
fection, originating long before art had tasked 
itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it 
on the monument. Tliey are now only to be 
met witii in the most distant and retired j^laces of 
the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have 
X. not been aT)le to throng in, and trample out all the 
curious and interestino- traces of the olden time. 




RURAL FUNP:RALS. 



U)8 



In CTlariiorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse 
lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the 
wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 

"White his sliroud as tiie mountain snow 
Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
With true love showers." 

There is also a most delicate and beaatiful rite observed in 
some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a 
female who has died 3'oung and unmarried. A chaplet of white 
flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, 
size, and resemblance, and is afterward hung up in the church 
over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are 
sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and 
inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are 
intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the 
crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the 

grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, 

"to show," says Bourne, "that they have finished their course 

with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am informed, 

is observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in 

Northumberland ; and it has a pleasing, though melancholy 

effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, 

the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, 

and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 

"Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy hannlesse and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodill 
And other tlowers lay upon 
'J'he altar of our love, thy stone." 

IIEKRICK. 

80 



X94 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the pass- 
ing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, 
occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the 
soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, 
to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear, sometimes 
quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards ; and, 
having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English 
character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling 
graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the 
solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a 
peaceful grave. The humblest jDcasant, whatever may be his 
lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may 
be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the 
"faire and happy milkmaid,'' observes, "thus lives she, and all 
her cai'e is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store 
of flowers stucke upon her windingsheet." The poets, too, who 
always breathe tlie feeling of a nation, continually advert to this 
fond solicitude about the grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by 
Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 
describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl : 

"When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse." 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally preva- 
lent. Osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf 
uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. 
"We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, "with 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



195 




fl()\vens and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, 
which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those fading 
beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonour, rise again in 
glory/' This usage lias now become extremely rare in England ; 
but it may still be met with in the churchyards of retired vil- 
lages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an instance 
of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head of the 
beautiful vale of Clewvd. I have been told also bv a friend, 



196 '^HE SKETCH BOOK. 

who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorgan- 
shire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, 
which, as soon as the body was interred, they stnck about the 
grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 
same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the 
ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be 
seen in various states of decay; some drooping, others quite 
perished. They were afterward to be supplanted by holly, rose- 
mary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had grown 
to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrange- 
ment of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly 
poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form 
a general emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," said 
Evelvn, '' l)orne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied 
with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbra- 
tile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a show 
for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The na- 
ture and color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which 
they were tied, had often a particular reference to the equalities 
or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the 
mourner. In an old poem, entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," 
a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use : 

'■ A garland shall be framed 
By art and nature's skill, 
Of snndry-colour'd flowers. 
Ill token of good-will. 

'• And sundry -colour'd ribands 
On it I will bestow : 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 
With her to orrave shall so 



KURAL FUNERALS. ]^y7 

■■ I'll deck her tomb with (lowers. 
The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers, 
I'll keep them fresh and green." 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a 
virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her 
spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons were inter- 
mingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose 
was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had been re- 
markable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appropri- 
ated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom 
was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the 
county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked 
the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes.'' And 
Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia : " Here is also a cer- 
tain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees 
upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who 
have lost their loves ; so that this churchyard is now full of 
them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems 
of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and 
cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most 
melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. 
(published in 1651), is the following stanza: 

'• Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth." 

In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced, 
illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females 
who liad been disappointed in love: 



IQQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

•'Lay a garland on my hearse. 
Of the dismall yew. 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 
Say I died true. 

'• My love was false, but I was firm, 
From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 
Lightly, gentle earth." 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sen- 
timent and the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded 
the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an espe- 
cial precaution that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flow- 
ers should be employed. The intention seems to have been to 
soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brood- 
ing over the disgraces of perishing immortality, and to associate 
the memory of the deceased with the most delicate and beautiful 
objects in nature. There is a dismal process going on in the 
grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, wdiich the imagi- 
nation shrinks from contemplating ; and we seek still to think 
of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which 
it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. 
" Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister— 

"And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring!" 

Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fra- 
grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner 
embalms the dead in the recollections of the living : 

"Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 
And make this place all Paradise : 
May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 
Fat frankincense. 



RURAL FUNERALS. |()() 

Lei baliiie and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe witli flowers! 

May virgins, wlien tliey come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon tliine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in tliine urn." 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British 
poets who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and de- 
lighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted 
more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving 
a passage from Shakspeare, even though it should appear trite ; 
which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
these floral tributes, and at the same time possesses that magic 
of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands 

pre-eminent : 

■' With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not laciv 
The flower that's lil^e thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath." 

There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt 
and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly 
monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart 
is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding 
the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow 
labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of 
sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly elegant 
and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only 
in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as 



200 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

if poetical custom always sbuus the walks of cultivated society. 
In proportion as joeople grow polite, the}^ cease to be poetical. 
They talk of poetry, but they have learned to check its free im- 
pulses, to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most 
affecting and picturesque usages, by studied form and pompous 
ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than 
an Englisli funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy 
parade ; moui-ning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, 
and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. "There 
is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn mourn- 
ing, and a great talk in the neighbourhood, and when the dales 
are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no 
more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon 
forgotten; the hurrying succession of new intimates and new 
pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and 
circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But 
funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke 
of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an 
awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The pass- 
ing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with its pervading 
melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also per- 
petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoj^ed 
them; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and 
gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated 
with every charm of nature; w^e hear his voice in the echo 
which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove 
which he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland 
solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the 
fi-eshness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles 
and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening returns with its 



RURAL FUNERALS. 201 

gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a 
twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 

" Each lonely place shall him restore. 
For him the tear he duly shed; 
Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
And mourn'd till pity's self l)e dead." 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased 
in the country is, that the grave is more immediately in sight 
of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer, it meets 
their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercises of de- 
votion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is 
disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside 
from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit dowui among 
the solemn mementos of the j^ast. In North Wales the peas- 
antry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends, 
for several Sundays after the interment ; and where the tender 
rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is al- 
ways renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when 
the season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly 
to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest rela- 
tives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are employed ; and 
if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to 
offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it 
is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The 
grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine 
passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive 
impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be con- 
tinually refreslied and kept alive by the presence of its oliject ; 
but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remem- 
brance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline 
31 



202 THE SKETCH BCJOK. 

with the charms wliich excited them, and turn with shuddering 
disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence 
that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual 
desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify 
the heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we 
refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to lieal — 
every other affliction to forget ; Ijut this wound we consider it a 
duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in 
solitude. Where is the mother wdio would willingly forget the 
infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every 
recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly 
forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but 
to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the 
friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is 
closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; wlien he feels 
his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would 
accept of consolation that must be l)ought by forgetfulness ? — 
No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attri- 
butes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; 
and wdien the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the 
gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the 
convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most 
loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it 
was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a 
sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a 
passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or sj^read a deeper 
sadness over the hour of gloom, jet who would exchange it 
even for the song of pleasui-e, or the bui-st of revelry ? No ; 
there is a voice from the toml) sweeter than song. There is a 
remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the 




V ^,g«fe^t? 



charms of tlie living. Ob. the grave ! — the grave ! — It buries 
every error — ^covers every defect — extinguishes every resent- 
ment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets 
and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave 
even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he 
should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that 
lies mouldering before him ! 

But the grave of those we loved — what a })lace for meditation ! 
There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of 
virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished 
upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy — 
there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful 
tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of deatli. with all its 
stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assi- 
duities ! The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, 
fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrilling ! — pressure of the hand ! 
The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one 



204 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

more assurance of affection ! The last fond look of tlie glazing 
eye, turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of l^uried love, and meditate ! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit un- 
requited — every past endearment unregarded, of that departed 
being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by 
thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul 
or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if 
tbou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that 
ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment 
of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever 
wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously 
confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one 
unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still 
beneath thy feet — then be sure that every unkind look, every 
ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging 
back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — 
then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and rej^entant on 
the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing 
tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of 
nature aljout the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, 
with these tender yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning 
by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and 
henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of 
tliy duties to the living. 



KURAL Fl^NERALS. 205 

In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a 
full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but 
merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of par- 
ticular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another paper, 
which has been withheld. The article swelled insensibly into 
its present form, and this is mentioned as an apology for so 
brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been 
amply and learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom 
of adorning graves with flowers j^re vails in other countries be- 
sides Enarlaud. Indeed, in some it is much more General, and 
is observed even by the rich and fashionable; l)ut it is then apt 
to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, 
in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, 
and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves generally are 
covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a cas- 
ual picture of filial piety, which I cannot Ijut transcribe ; for I 
trust it is as useful as it is delisfhtful to illustrate tlie amiable 
virtues of the sex: "When I was at Berlin," says he, "I fol- 
lowed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some 
pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the 
ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman, who 
stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she 
anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was 
the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this affectionate daugh- 
ter presented a monument more striking than the most costly 
work of art.'' 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I 
once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at 
the village of (lersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake 



205 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Eigi, It was once tlie capital 
of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the lake, 
and accessible on the land-side only hj foot-paths. The wdiole 
force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; 
and a few miles of circumference, scooped out, as it were, from 
the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The vil- 
lage of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and 
retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small 
church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the 
graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were 
affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at 
likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets 
of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally re- 
newed. I paused with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was 
at the source of poetical description, for these were the beautiful 
but unaffected offerings of the heart which poets are fain to 
record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have 
suspected them to have been suggested by factitious sentiment, 
derived from l)ooks ; but the good people of Gersau knew little 
of books ; there was not a novel nor a love-poem in the village : 
and I question whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while 
he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that 
he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devo- 
tion, find that he was practically a poet. 




THE INN KITCHEN. 



^li ill I not lake mine ease in mine inn?" 

P'alstapf. 



URING a journey that I once made 
through the Netherlands, I had ar- 
rived one evening at the Pomme cVOr, 
the principal inn of a small Flemish 
village. It was after the hour of the 
table (Thote, so that I was obliged to 
make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler 
board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one 
end of a great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, 
I had the prospect befoi'e me of a long, dull evening, without 
any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, 
and requested something to read : he brouglit me the whole 
literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an alma- 
nac in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspa- 
pers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old and 
stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts 
of laughter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every 
one that has travelled on the continent must know how favorite 
a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and infe- 
rior order of travellers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of 
weather, when a fire becomes agreeable towai'il evening. I 



208 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, 
to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It 
was composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours 
before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and 
hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great burnished 
stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at which 
they were worshipping. It was covered with vaiious kitchen- 
vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which steamed and 
hissed a huge copjjer tea-kettle. A lai*ge lamp threw a strong 
mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features 
in strong relief Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious 
kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; except where 
they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of 
bacon, or Avere reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that 
gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish 
lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with 
a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of 
the temple. 

Many of the company were famished with pipes, and most of 
them with some kind of evening potation, I found their mirth 
was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, 
with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his 
love-adventures ; at the end of each of which there was one of 
those bursts of honest, unceremonious laughter, in which a man 
indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious, blus- 
tering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a 
variety of travellers' tales, some very extravagant, and most very 
dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous 
memory except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, 
however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in w^hich it 



THE INX KITCHEN. 



■Znu 




was told, and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. 
Tie Avas a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran 
traA'(>llcr. He was dressed in a tarnished j^reen travelling-jacket, 
with a hroad heU i-ouiid his waist, and a pair of overalls, with 
huttons from the hi})S to the ankles, lie was of a full, rubic-nnd 
countenance, with a d()id)le chin, a([uihne nos(^, and a ])leasant, 
32 



210 "THE SKETCH BOOK. 

twinkling eye. His Lair was iiglit, and curled fi-om under an 
old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. 
He was interrupted more than once b}' the an-ival of guests, or 
the remarks of his auditors, and paused now and then to replen- 
isli his pipe : at wdiicli times he had generally a roguish leer, and 
a slv joke for tlie Ijuxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow^ lolling in a 
huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously- 
twisted tobacco-pi])e, foi'med of genuine ecume de mer^ decorated 
with silver cliain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one 
side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related 
the followiuL!' stoi'v. 



p') 




THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* 

" He that supper for is dight, 
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 
Yestreen to chamber I liim led. 
This night Gray-Steel has made his bed." 

Siu EfipjR, Si;t CtRAIIAMe, axd Sir Cray-Steel. 

ON the sumiuit of one of the heights of tlie Odenwald, a wild 
and romantic ti'act of Upper Germany, that lies not liir IVom 
the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, 
many years since, the Castle of th(> Baron A^on Landshort. It 

■■' The enuliie reader, well ver.'^ed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive that the 
above Tale must liave been suggested to Mu' old Swiss l)y a little French anecdote, 
a circumstance said to liave taken place at Paris. 



212 TJIE RKETdl KOOK. 

is now quite lidlen to decay, and almost hui'ied among beecli- 
trces and dark firs; al)ove wliicli, liowever, its old watch-tower 
may still be seen, struggling, like the former possessor I have 
jnentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon the 
neighhori ng country. 

The bai'on was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenel- 
lenbogen,'^ and inherited the relics of the property, and all the 
pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his 
predecessors had mnch impaired the family possessions, yet the 
baron still endeavoi'ed to ke(^p up some show of former state. 
The times were peaceable, and the (lerman nobles, in general, 
had al)andoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like 
eas;les' nests amona; the mountains, and had built more conve- 
nient residences in the valleys: still the baron remained proudly 
drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary invet- 
eracy, all the old fiimily feuds; so that he was on ill terms with 
some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that hnd 
happened between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The l)aron had but one child, a daughter ; Ijut xs aturc, when 
she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a 
prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All the 
nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured Iser father that she 
had not her equal for l)eautv in all Germanv ; and who should 
know better than they? She had, moreove]', been brought up 
with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, 
who had spent some years of tlieir early life at one of the little 
German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowl- 
edge necessary to the educatif)n of a line lady. Under their 

* i. e.. Cat's-Elbov,'. Tlie name of a family of those parts, very powerful in 
former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless 
dame of the familv, celebrated for her tine arm. 



TIIK SFKCTKE BKI]:»K(ii;< H)M. 



218 



instructions she Ijecanic a niii'acle of acconiplisljnu'nts. Bv the 
time she was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, 
and had worked whole histories of the saints in ta})estry, with 
such strengtli of expression in their countenances, that they 
looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read with- 
out great difficulty, and had spelled her way through several 
church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the 
Heldenbucli. Slie had even made considerable proficiency in 
writing ; could sign her own name without missing a letter, and 
so legibly, that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She 
excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing ladydike nick- 
nacks of all kinds; was versed in tlie most abstruse dancing of 
the day; played a nund)er of airs on the harp and guitar; and 
knew all the tender ballads of the Minniedieders by heart. 

Her aunts, to(j, having been great flirts and coquettes in their 
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardi- 
ans and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is 
no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a 
superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their 
sight ; never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well 
attended, or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to 
her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to the 
men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them at such a distance, 
and in such absolute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, 
she would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cav- 
alier in tlie world — no, not if he were even dying at her 
feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the 
world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside l)y every 



2X4 T^i^ SKETCH BOOK. 

hand, she was coyly blooming into fresli and lovely womanhood 
under the protection of those immaculate spinstei-s, like a rose- 
bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked 
upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though 
all the other young ladies in the w^orld miglit go astray, yet, 
thank Heaven, nothing of the kind eould happen to the heiress 
of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Yon Landshort might be 
provided with children, his household was by no means a small 
one ; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor 
relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposi- 
tion common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached to 
the baron, and took every possible occasion to come in swarms 
and enliven the castle. All family festivals were commemorated 
by these good people at the baron's expense ; and when they 
were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was 
nothing on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these 
jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell 
long stories about the dark old warriors whose poi-traits looked 
grimly down from the walls around, and he found no listeners 
equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much given to 
the marvellous, and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales 
with which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. 
The faith of his guests exceeded even his own : they listened 
to every talc of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never 
failed to be astonislied, even though repeated lor the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his 
table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



215 



above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest in;in 
of the age. 

At the time of which my stoiy treats, there was a great family 
gathering at the castle, on an atfair of the utmost importance: it 
was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. 
A negotiation had l^een carried on bet^^'een the father and an 
old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their liouses 
Ijy the marriage of their children. The preliminaries liad been 
conducted with proper punctilio. The 3'oung j^eople were be- 
trothed without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed 
for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg 
had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was actu- 
ally on his way to the baron's to receive his bride. Missives 
had even been I'eceived from him, fi'om Wurtzl)urg, where he 
was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour when 
he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tmnult of ])reparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The fidr bride liad been decked out with 
uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, 
and quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her 
dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest 
to follow tlie bent of her own taste; and fortunately it was a 
good one. She looked as lovely as youthful 1)ridegroo]n could 
desire; and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of 
her chai'ins. 

The suffusions that mantled lier face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all 
betrayed the soft tumult tliat was going on in ]\oy little heart. 
Th(^ aunts were continually hovering around her: for maiden 
aunts are apt to take great interest in aflaii's of this nature. 
They were giving her a, world of staid counsel how to deport 



216 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



herself, what to sav, ami in what inamier to r('cpiv(* the expected 
lover. 

The baron was no less liusied in preparations, lie liad, in 
truth, nothino- exactly to do: bnt he was natui'ally a fuming, 
bustling little man. and could not remain passive when all the 
world was in a hurrv. He worried from top to bottom of the 
castle wdth an air of inlinite anxiety; he continually called' the 
servants from their work, to exhort them to be diligent; and 
buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and im- 
portunate as a l)lue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the mean time, the fatted calf had 1)een killed; the forests 
had ]"ung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was 
crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole 
oceans of Rliein-weia and Ferne-iveia ; and even the gi'eat Hei- 
delburg tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing- 
was ready to receive the distinguished guest with ^^'aus und 
Brans in tlie true spirit of German hospitality — but the guest 
delayed to make liis a})pearance. Hour rolled after hour. The 
sun, that had poured his downward i-ays upon the rich forest 
of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the 
mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained 
his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the count and his 
attendants, (hice he thought he beheld them; the sound of 
horns came ih)ating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain 
echoes. A number of horsemen were seen flir below, slowly 
advancing along the road ; but when they had nearly reached 
the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different 
direction. The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began 
to flit by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to 
the view; and nothing appeared Stirling in it but now and then 
a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 217 

While tlie old castle of Lundsliort was in this state of per- 
plexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different 
part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Yon Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his 
route in that sober, jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward 
matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and un- 
certainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for 
him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had 
encountered, at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with 
whom he had seen some service on the frontiers — Herman Yon 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of 
German cliivalry, who was now returning from the army. Ilis 
father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Land- 
short, although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, 
and strangers to each other. 

In tlie warm-hearted moment of recognition, the voung friends 
related all their past adventures and fortunes; and the count 
gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young 
lady whom he had never seen, but of whose cliarms he had 
received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay iu the same direction, they 
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and, that 
they might do it the more leisurely, set oif from Wurtzburg at 
an early hour, the count having given directions for his retinue 
to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their 
military scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to be a 
little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his 
bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and 
88 



21^ . THE SKETCH BOOK. 

thickly-wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of 
Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as its 
castles Ijv spectres ; and, at this time, the former were particu- 
Larlv numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers w^andering 
about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, 
that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, 
in the midst of the forest. Tliey defended themselves with 
bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue 
arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, 
but not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was 
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, 
and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was 
famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; 
but half of his skill was superfluous : the moments of the unfor- 
tunate count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair in- 
stantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause 
of his not keeping his appointment wnth his bride. Though not 
the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of 
men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should 
be speedily and courteously executed. " Unless this is done," 
said he, '• I shall not sleep quietly in my grave 1" He repeated 
these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a mo- 
ment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust en- 
deavored to soothe him to calmness; promised faithfully to 
execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. 
The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed 
into delirium — raved about his bride — Ids engagements — his 
plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the 
castle of Landshort ; and expired in the fancied act of vaulting 
into the saddle. 



THE SPECTRE BEIDEGROOM. 



219 



Starkeufaust bestowed a sigli and a sol(lier*'s tear on the un- 
timely fate of liis comrade ; and then pondered on tlie awkward 
mission he Inid nndertalcen. His lieart was heavy, and his head 
perplexed ; for he was to present himself an unbidden guest 
among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings 
fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of 
curiosity in his bosom .to see this far-famed beauty of Katzencl- 
lenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a 
passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentri- 
city and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all 
singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with 
the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of 
his friend, who was to l:)e buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, 
near some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning retinue 
of the count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient fam- 
ily of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and 
still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little Ijaron, 
whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron de- 
scended from the tower in despair. The bancjuet, which had 
been delayed from liour to hour, coidd no longer be ])ostponed. 
The meats were already overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and 
the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been 
reduced by famine. The l)aron' was obliged reluctantly to give 
orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were 
seated at table, and just on the point of connnencing, when the 
sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the ap- 
proach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts 
of the castle with its echoes, and was answered bv the warder 



220 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future son- 
in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a 
black steed. His countenance was pale, bnt he liad a beaming, 
romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The baron was 
a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, soli- 
tary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt 
disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the impor- 
tant occasion, and the important family with which he was to be 
connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclnsion, 
that it must have been youthful impatience which had induced 
him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus 
unseasonably — " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments 
and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he pi'ided himself upon his 
courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, 
to stem the torrent of words, but in vain ; so he bowed his head, 
and suffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to 
a pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the 
stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more in- 
terrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He arazed on 
her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole 
soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. 
One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear : she 
made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised ; 
gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger; and was cast 
again to the ground. The words died away ; but thei'e was a 
sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGEOOM. 221 

clieek that sliowed her ghmce had not been unsatisfactory. It 
was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly 
jDredisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so 
gallant a cavaher. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for 
parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular 
conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted 
banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the 
walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house 
of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in 
the tield and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting- 
spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of 
sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar 
grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge 
pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the youth- 
ful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low 
tone, that could not be overheard — for the language of love is 
never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot 
catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled 
tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have 
a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and 
v/ent as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she 
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, 
she Vv'ould steal a sidelong glance at his romantic counte- 
nance, and heave a gentle sigli of tender happiness. It was 
evident that the young couple were completely enamored. The 
aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, 



222 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

declared that tbej had fallen in love with each other at first 
sisfht. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests 
were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend npon light 
purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest 
stories, and never had he told them so w^ell, or wdth such great 
effect. If there was any thing marvellous, his auditors were 
lost in astonishment; and if any thing facetious, they were sure 
to laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like 
most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull 
one ; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent 
Hockheimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served 
up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were 
said by poorer and keener wits that wTjuld not Ijear repeating, 
except on similar occasions; many sly speeches whispered in 
ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed laugh- 
ter; and a song or two roared out by a poor but merry and 
broad-faced cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the maiden 
aunts hold ujd their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger-guest maintained a most 
singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed 
a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange 
as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render 
him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, 
and at times there v/as a perturbed and restless wandering of 
the eye that l)espoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations 
with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. 
Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her 
brov/, and tremors to ]-un through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their 
gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bride- 



THE SPECTRE BPJDEGEOOM. 223 

groom ; their spii-its wci'e iulected ; whispers and glances were 
interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the 
head. The song and the hiugh grew less and less frecjuent; 
there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at 
length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One 
dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron 
nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics wdth the his- 
tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; 
a dreadful story, which has since been put into excellent verse, 
and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. 
He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story 
drew to a close, began gradually to rise from liis seat, growing 
taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed 
almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, 
he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the com- 
pany. They were all amazement. The Ijaron was perfectly 
thunder-struck. 

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? wdiy, every 
thing was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for 
him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously. 
"I must lay my head in a different chandjer to-night!'' 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it 
was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he 
rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
out of the hall. Tlie maiden aunts were absolutely petrified — 
the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the strano;er to the o-reat court of the 



224 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and 
snorting with impatience. When they had reached the portal, 
whose deep archway was dimly lighted l^y a cresset, the stranger 
paused, and addressed the l)aron in a hollow tone of voice, which 
the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. 

" Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you the 
reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engage- 
ment — " 

"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your 
place?" 

"It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — I 
must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to- 
morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

" No ! no !" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, " my 
engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms expect 
me ! I am a dead man — I have Ijeen slain by robbers — my body 
lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — the grave is 
waiting for me — I must keep my appointment!" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, 
and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling 
of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, 
and related what had passed. Two ladies feinted outright, 
others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. 
It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild hunts- 
man, famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain- 
sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with 
which the good people of Germany liave been so grievously 
harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations 
ventured to suggest that it might be some sjiortive evasion of 



THE SPECTKE BKIDEGROOM. 9>_>5 

tlie voung cavalier, and that tbe very glooiniiiess of the caprice 
seemed to accord with so inelancholv a personage. This, how- 
ever drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and 
especially of the haron, wlio looked upon him as little better 
than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as 
speedily as possible, and come into the laith of the true be- 
lievers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of reg- 
ular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young count's 
murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron 
shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to 
rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his dis- 
tress. They wandered aljout the courts, or collected in groups 
in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, 
at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at 
table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of 
keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed 
bride was the most pitialile. To have lost a husband before 
she had even embraced him — and such a husljand ! if the very 
spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have been 
the living man ? She filled the house with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had 
retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who 
insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the 
best tellers of ghost-stories in all Germany, had just been re- 
counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very 
midst of it. The chamber was i-emote, and overlooked a small 
garden. The niece lay j)ensively gazing at the beams of the 
rising moon, as thcv Ircmliled <ni the leaves ol' an aspcn-tree 
U 



22(3 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

before the lattice. The eastle clock had just tolled midnight, 
when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose 
hastily from her hed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tall 
figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its 
head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven 
and earth ! • she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek 
at that moment burst upon lier ear, and her aunt, who had been 
awakened V)y the music, and had followed her silently to the 
window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre 
had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now ivquired the most so<^thing, 
for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young 
lady, there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that 
seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly 
beauty; and though the shadow of a man is but little calcu- 
lated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the 
substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt 
declai'cd she would never sleep in that chamber again ; the 
niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that 
slie would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was, 
that she had to sleep in it alone : but she drew a promise from 
her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be 
denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on eartli — that of 
inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her 
lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this prom- 
ise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, 
and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; 
it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable 
instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole 
week ; when she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint 



THE SPECTRE BKIDEOROOM. 



22; 




by intelligence hronglit to the breakfast-table one morning that 
the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — 
the l)ed had not been slept in — the window was open, and the 
bird haj:! flown. 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence 
was received, can only be imagined by those who liave wit- 
nessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause 
among his friends. Even the poor i-elations paused for a mo- 
ment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher; when the 



228 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

aunt, wliu li;id ;it Hrst been struck speecLless, wrung her liands, 
and shrieked out, " The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away 
by the goblin 1" 

In a fevv^ words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. 
Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had 
heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the momitain about 
midnight, and had no doul)t that it was the spectre on his black 
charger, bearing her away to tlie tomb. All present were sti'uck 
with the direful yjrobability ; for events of the kind are extreme- 
ly common in Germany, as many well-authenticated histories 
bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor l)aron ! 
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member 
of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughtei- 
had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some 
wood-demon foi' a son-in-law, and perchance a troop of goblin 
grandchildren. As usual, he ~ was completely bewildered, and 
all the castle in an uproai-. The men were ordered to take 
horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. 
The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on 
his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on 
the doubtful quest, when he was Ijrought to a })anse by a new 
apparition. A lady was seen approaching tlie castle, mount(^d 
on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She gal- 
loped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and, foiling at the 
baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and 
her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron was as- 
tounded, lie looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and 
almost doubted tlie evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was 
wonderfully improved in his appearance since his visit to the 



THE SPECTRE BKIDEGKOOM. 9^9 

world of spirits. His dress \v;is splendid, and set utT a noble 
tigure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melan- 
choly. Ills fine countenance was flushed with the glow of 
youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) 
announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkcnfaust. He re- 
lated his adventure with the young count. He told liow he had 
hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that 
tlie eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in eveiy attempt 
to tell liis tale. How the sight of the bride had completely 
captivated him, and that, to pass a few hours near her, he had 
tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been 
sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until 
the baron's goblin-stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, 
fearing the feudal liostility of the family, he had repeated his 
visits l)y stealth — had haunted tlie garden beneath tlie voung 
lady's window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in tri- 
umph—and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been 
inflexiVjle, for he was tenacious of patei'nal authority, and de- 
voutly obstinate in all family feuds: l)ut he loved his daugh- 
ter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her still 
alive ; and, though her husl)and was of a hostile house, yet, 
thank Heaven, he was not a g()l)lin! There was something, 
it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with liis 
notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed 
upon him of his being a dead man; but several old friends 
present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every 
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was enti- 
tled to especial privilege. lia\'ing lately served as a ti-ooper. 
35 



230 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Matter.s, therefore, wei'e Ijappil}' ttrraugecl. The bart>u pji.r- 
doned the young couple on the s])ot. The revels at the castle 
were resumed. The pooi- relations overwhelmed this new mem- 
ber of the family with loving-kindness ; he was so gallant, so 
generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewliat 
scandalized that their system of strict seclusion and passive 
obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all 
to tlieir negligence in not having the windows grated. One of 
them was particularly mortified at having her marvellous story 
marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at hav- 
ing found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story 
ends. 



AVESTMTNSTER ABBEY. 

•• When ] hflidld, with deep astouiHliiiiciit, 

To famous Westminster how tliere resoite 

Liviug in brasse or stouey monument, 

The princes and the wortliies of all sorle: 

Doe not I see reformde nobilitie. 

AVithout contempt, or pride, or ostentation. 

Ahd looke upon offcnselesse majest_y, 

Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 

And how a play-garne of a painted stone 

Contents the quiet now and silent sprites. 

Whome all tlie world which late they stood upcm 

Could not content or quench their appetite:^. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie." 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 15ii,s. 

ON one of those sol)er uud ratlier inelancliolv dtiys, in the 
latter part of Autnnin, when the shadows of morning and 
evening ahnost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the 
decline of the year, I passed several lioiirs in ramljling al)oiit 
Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the 
season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I 
passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into the regions 
of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 
I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through 
a long, low, vaulted passage, thtit h;id an almost subterranean 
look, being dimly lighted in one ])art by circular perforations 
in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a dis- 
tant view of the eloisters. with the ligure of an old verger, in his 



232 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



black gown, inoving along tlieir sLadowy vaults, and seeniiug 
like a spectre Irom one of the neigb boring tombs. The approach 
to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 
the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain 
something of the quiet and seclusion of foiiner days. The gray 
walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat 
of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural 
monuments, and ol)Scured the death's heads and other funei-eal 
emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the 
i-ich tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- 
stones have lost their leafy beauty; every tiling bears marks 
of the gradual dilapidations of time, wdiich yet has something 
touching and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was jwuring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in 
the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with 
a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye 
glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld 
the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure 
heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this min- 
gled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to 
decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the 
pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, 
rudely carved in relief, but nearly woi'n aw^ay by the footsteps 
of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the 
early abbots : the epitai[)hs were entirely effaced ; the names 
alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. 
(Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, 
and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) T remained some little while, 
musing f)ver these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



'2'^'4 




wrecks upon tliis distant shore of time, telling no tale but tliat 
such beings had been, and liad perished : teacliing no moral but 
the futility of tliat ])ride ^lieh hopes still to exact homage in 
its ashes, and to live in an inscri])tion. A little longer, and 
36 



234 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

even these Ihint records will 1je obliterated, and the monument 
will cease to l)e a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down 
upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey 
clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among 
the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of de- 
parted time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of 
the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward toward the 
grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the 
interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults 
of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered col- 
umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them 
to such an amazing height; and man, wandering about their 
bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison wdth his own 
handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice 
produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously 
and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence 
of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and 
chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the 
quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon 
the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We 
feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 
great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, 
and the earth with their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human 
ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in 
the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty 
nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, 
when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, 
and forms, jiiid m-tifices, are devised to catch the casual notice 



WEISTMINSTEK ABBEY, 



285 




of the passenger, and save from forgctfulness, for a few slioit 
years, a name wliicli once aspired to occnpy ages of the world's 
thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end 
of one of the transepts or cross-aisles of the abbey. The monu- 
ments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford 
no striking themes for the scid})tor. Shakspeare and A<ldison 
have statues erected to their memories ; Init the greater part 
have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Not- 



236 ''''^'■^ .SKETCH HOOK. 

withstanding tlie simplicity of tliese momorials, I luivo always 
observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes 2olace of tliat cold curi- 
osity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid 
monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger al;)out 
these as about the tondjs of I'riends and companions; for indeed 
there is something of companionship between the author and 
the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through 
the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and 
obscure: but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- 
men is ever new, active, and immediate. lie has lived for them 
more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjov- 
ments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that 
he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and 
distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown; for it 
has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by 
the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well rnay posterity be 
grateful to his memory; for he has lelt it an inheritance, uot of 
empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wis- 
dom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towaixl that part of 
the al»l)ey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wan- 
dered among wliat once were chapels, but which are now occu- 
pied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At oxcry turn 
I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some 
poweriul house renowned in history. As the eye darts into 
these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint 
effigies ; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others 
stretched upon the tondjs, with hands }uouslv pressed together : 
warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with ci-o- 
siers and mitres: and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 2'67 

were in state. In glancing over this scene, so sti'angely po})u- 
Ions, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost 
as if we were treading a mansion of that faltled city, where 
every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. 
- I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a 
knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; 
the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast : 
the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were 
crossed, in token of the warrior's liaving been engaged in the 
holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those mili- 
tary enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, 
and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and 
tiction — Ijetween the history and the fairy tale. There is some- 
thing extremely picturescpie in the tombs of these adventurers, 
decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic 
sculpture. They comport with tlie antiquated chapels in which 
they are generally found ; and, in considering them, the imagi- 
nation is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the 
romantic liction, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which 
poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. 
They are the relics of times utterly gone by ; of beings passed 
from recollection ; of customs and maimers with which ours 
have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and 
distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about 
wliich all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is 
something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on 
(rothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the 
supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infmitely 
more impressive on my feelings than the lanciful attitudes, the 
overwi'ought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on 
modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the supe- 



238 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

riority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was 
a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and yet 
saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that 
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable 
lineage than one which affirms, of a noble house, that "all the 
l)rothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transej^t to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art, 
but which to me appears horrible rather than sulilime. It is 
the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Eoubillac. The bottom of 
the monument is rej^resented as throwing open its marble doors, 
and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling 
from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. 
She is sinking into her affrighted husTxuid's arms, who strives, 
with vain and fi'antic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is 
executed with terrible truth and spirit : we almost fancy we 
hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended 
jaws of the spectre. But why should we thus seek to clothe 
death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the 
tomb of those we love ? The grave should be surrounded by 
every thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the 
dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, 
not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
from without occasionally reaches the ear- — the rumbling of the 
passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the 
light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death- 
like repose around : and it lias a strange ellect upon the feelings, 
thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
against the very walls of the sepulchre. 



WESTxMINSTEK ABBEY. 239 

I continued in tliis way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
ebapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; tbe 
distant tread of loiterers about tbe abl)ey grew less and less 
frequent ; tbe sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening 
prayers ; and I saw at a distance tbe cboristers, in tbeir wbite 
surplices, crossing tbe aisle and entering tbe cboir. I stood 
before tbe entrance to Plenry tbe Seventh's chapel. A flight 
of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy but magnifi- 
cent arch. Great gates of l)rass, richly and delicately wrought; 
turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit 
tbe feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sep- 
ulchres. 

On entering, tbe eye is astonished by tbe pomp of architecture, 
and the elaljorate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls 
are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, 
and scooped into niches, crowded with tlie statues of saints and- 
martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of tbe chisel, to 
liave been robljcd of its weight and density, suspended aloft, ns 
if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved witli the wonderful 
minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along tbe sides of the chapel are tbe lofty stalls of the 
Knights of tbe Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the gro- 
tesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of 
tbe stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with 
their scarfs and swords ; and above them are suspended tbeir 
banners, emblazoned with armorial l)earings, and contrasting the 
splendor of gold and purple and crimson, with tbe cold gray 
fretwork of the roof In tbe midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands tbe sepulchre of its founder — his effigy, with tliat of his 
queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whob' surround- 
ed by a superbly- wrought brazen raibng. 



240 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

There is a sad dreariness in tliis magnificenoe ; this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and as- 
piring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and 
oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing 
impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, tlian to 
tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous l)anners that 
were once borne before tliem, my imagination conjui-ed up the 
scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of 
the land; glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank and mil- 
itary array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of 
an admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of 
death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only l)y the 
casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the 
chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — 
sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
those of men scattered far and wide about the world : some toss- 
ing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some 
mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; all seek- 
ing to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy 
honors — tlie melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
ing instance of the equality of the grave ; which brings down 
the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the 
dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre 
of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, the 
lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day l)ut some 
ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled 
with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 241 

sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved 
at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
buried. The light struggles dimh" through windows darkened 
by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and 
the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A mar- 
ble ligure of Mary is stretched u[)on the tomli, round which is 
an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — 
the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest 
myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered 
and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbe}^ I 
could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the 
choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The still- 
ness, the desertion and obscuiity that were gradually prevailing 
around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place: 

'• For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. 
No carefnl father's counsel — uothnig's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion. 
Dust, and an endless darkness." 

Suddenly tlie notes of the deepdaboring organ liurst upon the 
ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, 
as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume 
and grandeur accord with tliis mighty building ! With what 
pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their 
awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the 
silent sepulchre vocal !- — And now they rise in triumph and 
acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, 
and piling sound on sound. — ^Vnd now they pause, and the soft 
37 



242 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

voices of the clioi r break out into sweet gushes of inelod j ; they 
soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about 
these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the j^eal- 
ing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into 
music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn 
cadences ! What solemn, sweeping concords ! It grows more 
and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems 
to jar the very walls — tlie ear is stunned — the senses are over- 
whelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising 
from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and 
floated upward on this swelling tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain 
of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening 
were gradually thickening round me ; the monuments began to 
cast deeper and deeper gloom : and the distant clock again gave 
token of the slowly-waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the 
flight of steps which lead into the body of the Ijuilding, my eye 
was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascend- 
ed the small staircase that conducts to it, to take fi'om thence 
a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is 
elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the 
sepulchres of various kings and queens. Fi'om this eminence 
the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the 
chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where war- 
riors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen, lie mouldering in their 
''beds of darkness." Close l)y me stood the great chair of coro- 
nation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote 
and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with 
theatrical artifice, to produce an eftect upon the beholder. Here 
was a type of the beginning and tlie end of human pomp and 



WESTMINSTER ABHEV 



248 



power; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the 
sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous me- 
mentos had been gathered together as a lesson to living great- 
ness? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, 
the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how 
soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and 
it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the toml^, and be 
trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude ! 
For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuarv. 
There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to 
sport wdth awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds 
which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject hom- 
age and grovelling servility which they pay to tlie living. The 
coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his 
remains despoiled of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has 
been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the 
effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument 
but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homas"e of 
mankind. Some ai-e plundered ; some mutilated ; some covered 
with ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged and dis- 
honored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twi- 
light. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The 
effigies of the kino-s faded into shadows ; the marble fio-vires of 
the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain liglit ; 
the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath 
of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traver- 
sing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its 
sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and, as I passed 



244 TJIT'- SKETCH BOOK. •. 

out at tlie portal of tlie cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring 
noise behind me, lillcd the whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though 
I had scarcely taken my foot from, off tlie threshold. What, 
thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury 
of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti- 
ness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, 
the empire of Death ; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in 
state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust 
and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a 
boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever 
silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by 
the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes 
that gave interest to the })ast; and each age is a volume thrown 
aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day puslies the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be 
supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. ''Our fathers," says 
Sir Thomas Brown, ''lind their graves in our short memories, 
and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." 
History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and 
controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the 
statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids — 
what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but char- 
acters written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb, or 
the perpetuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander 
the Grreat have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sar- 
cophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyp- 
tian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath S2)ai-ed, avarice 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 



245 



now eonsnnietli : Mizraim cures wounds, mid Pluiraoli is sold 
for ])alsams.""" 

What, then, is to insure this pile, which now towers above 
me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? Tlie time 
must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, 
shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound 
of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken 
arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the 
garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of 
death, and the ivy twine round the fellen column; and the fox- 
glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in moek- 
eiy of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes 
from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is 
told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.f 

* Sir T. Brown. f For notes on West-minsler Abbey, see Appendix. 




CHRISTMAS. 



"But is old, old. good old Christmas gone? Notliing but the hair of his good, 
gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more 
of him." ■ Hue axd Cry after Christmas. -" 

'■ A man might then behold 
At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold. 

And meat for great and smalL 
The neighbours were friendly bidden. 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 
Wlien this old capAvas new." 

Old Soxg. 

NOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell over 
my imagination, than the lingei'ings of the holiday customs 
and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my 
fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I 



CHRISTMAS. 



247 



only knew the world through books, and beheved it to l)e all 
that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor 
of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fal- 
lacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, 
and joyous, than at present. I regret to say that they are daily 
growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by 
time, but still more obliterated hy modern fashion. They re- 
semble those picturesque moi'sels of Gothic architecture which 
we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapi- 
dated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and 
alterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cher- 
ishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from 
which it has derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds 
its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, 
gratefully repaying their support by clasping together their tot- 
tering remains, and, as it were, emlialming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone 
of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, 
and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy- 
ment. The services of the church about tliis season are ex- 
tremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful 
story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that 
accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in 
fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break 
forth in full jul)ilee on the morning that brought })eace and 
good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on 
the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing 
organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling 
every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrans^ement. also. deriv(Ml ii-om davs of vore. 



248 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

that this festival, which coinmemorates the announcement of the 
religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gatli- 
ering together of family connections, and drawing closer again 
those bands of kindred hearts, wdiicli the cares and pleasures 
and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; 
of calling back the children of a family, who have launched 
forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to as- 
semble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the 
affections, there to grow young and loving again among the 
endeariug mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that gives 
a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we de- 
rive a great portion of our pleasures from tlie mere beauties of 
Nature. Our feelings sally fortli and dissipate themselves over 
the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere."' 
The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing 
fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the 
golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of reli'eshing 
green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy 
magnificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we 
revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of 
winter, wlien Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wi'apped 
in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to 
moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, 
the short, gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circum- 
scribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling 
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of 
the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our 
friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the 
charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely 
together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart 



CHRISTMAS. 



249 



calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleasures from the deep 
wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our 
bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure 
rlenient of domestic felicity. 

The pitcliy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering 
the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening lire. 
The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine 
through the room, and lights up each countenance in a kindlier 
welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand 
into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance 
of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside ? 
And as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, 
claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles 
down the chimne}", what can be more grateful than that feel- 
ing of sober and sheltered security with which we look round 
upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hi- 
larity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit through- 
out every class of society, have always been fond of those fes- 
tivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of 
country life ; and they were, in former days, particularly obser- 
vant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring 
to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given 
of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete aban- 
donment to mirth and good-fellowship, with whicli this festival 
was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and un- 
lock every heart. It brought the j^easant and the peer together, 
and blended all ranks in one warm, generous flow of joy and 
kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded 
with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards 
groaned under the weight of hospitalit}'. Even tlie poorest cot- 
88 



250 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay 
and holly ; the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, 
inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip- 
knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the 
havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It 
has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs 
of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into 
a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic 
surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, 
are become matters of speculation and dispute among commen- 
tators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, 
when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously — 
times wild and picturescpie, which have furnished poetry with 
its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive va- 
riety of characters and manners. The world has become more 
worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. 
Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream ; 
and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where 
it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. So- 
ciety has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it 
has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred 
feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs 
of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly 
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and 
the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light, showy saloons 
and sav drawinof-rooms of the modern villa. 



CHRISTMAS. 



25 J 




Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused 
which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
preparations making on every side for the social board that is 
again to unite frifends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer 
passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners 
of kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and 
churches, emblems of peace and gladness : all these have the 
most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling 
benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as 
may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a win- 
ter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been 
awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, '• when deep 
sleep falleth upon man,"' I have listened with a hushed delight. 
and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 



252 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing 
peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty ! 
The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound 
repose of the country, " telling the night watches to his feathery 
dames,'' was thought by the common people to announce the 
approach of this sacred festival : 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say. no spirit dares stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike ; 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
and stir of the affections, which pi-evail at this period, what 
bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of re- 
generated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the fire 
of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the 
lieart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with 
the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping 
spirit; as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness 
of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — tliough for me 
no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its 
doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely hap- 
piness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every counte- 



CHRISTMAS. 



253 



nance, bright with smiles and glowing with innocent enjoyment, 
is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and 
ever-shining l)enevolence. He who can turn churlishly awav 
from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit 
down darkling and re})ining in his loneliness when all around is 
joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish 
gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies 
which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 



'Jinue bene 

Sine poen;l 
Tenipus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 



^ N the precedin.o; paper I have made some gen- 
eral observations on the Christmas festivities 
of Enghmd, and am tempted toilhis- 
trate them by some anecdotes of a 
Christmas passed in the coun- 
^V try ; in perusing whieli I would 
'-* most courteously invite my 




7;?^Vx^ 



reader to lay aside the aus- 
terity of wisdom, and to put 
on that genuine holiday 
spirit vhi( li is tolerant of folly, and anx- 
ious only for amusement. 
In the coiTrse of a December tour in York- 
shire, I rode for a long distance in one of the 
«. "^ ":. public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The 
coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, 
who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of 
relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded 



THE 8TAGE-(M)A(;il. 



255 



also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of deHcacies ; 
and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's 
box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. . I 
had tliree fine rosy-cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, 
full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observ- 
ed in tlie children of this country. They were returning home 
for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world 
of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of 
the little rogues, and the impractical)le feats they were to per- 
form during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred 
thraldom of l)ook, birch, and pedagogue. Tliey were full of 
anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, 
down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give 
their little sisters by the presents with which their |)ockets were 
crammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward 
with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found 
to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more 
virtues than any steed since the days of Buceplialus. How he 
could trot ! how he could run ! and then such lea})S ns he would 
take — there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could 
not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship (_)f the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an 0})portunity presented, they ad- 
dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best 
fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more 
than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, 
who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a lai-ge bunch of 
Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is 
always a personage full of migiity care and business, but he is 
particularly so during this season, having so many commis- 
sions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of 



256 TilJ*^ SKETCH BOOK. 

presents. xVnd liere, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my 
untravellecl readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general 
representation of this very numerous and important class of 
functionaries, wlio liave a dress, a manner, a language, an air, 
peculiar to tliemselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity ; 
so that, wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen, he 
cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 
red, as if the blood had been foi'ced by hard feeding into every 
vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 
quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further in- 
creased bv a nudtiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a 
cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a 
broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of coloi-ed hand- 
kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the 
bosom ; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in 
his button-hole ; the j^resent, most probably, of some enamored 
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, 
striped, and his small clothes extend far below the knees, to 
meet a pair of jockey l:)Oots which reach al)out half way -up his 
legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has 
a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; and, not- 
withstanding thu seeming grossness of his appearance, there is 
still discernible that neatness and proj)riety of person, which is 
almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse- 
quence and consideration along the road ; has frequent confer- 
ences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man 
of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to luive a good 
understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The mo- 
ment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws 



THE STAGE-COACII. 



257 



down the reins with, somettiing of an air, and abandons the 
cattle to the care of the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive 
from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are 
thrust into the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the 
inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he 
is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers, 
stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on that 
infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd 
jobs, for the privilege of liattening on the drippings of the 
kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to 
him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant jihrases ; echo his 
opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, 
above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every rag- 
amuffin that has a coat to liis back, thrusts his hands in the 
pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachy. 
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in 
every countenance throughout the journey. A stage-coach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world 
in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the en- 
trance of a village, produces a general l:)ustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and l;)andboxes to 
secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take 
leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time, 
the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. 
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks 
a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a pid)lic house; 
and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, 
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd- 
shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach 
rattles tlwouo-li the vil]ao:e, everv one runs to the window, and 



258 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



you have glances on every side of fresli country faces and 
blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos 
of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there 
for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the 
sagest knot is geneiTilly at the blacksraitli's, to whom the pass- 
ing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. 
The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the ve- 
hicle whirls by ; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their 
ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the 
sooty spectre, iu Ijrcnvn paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans 
on the handle lor a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine 
to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky 
smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if 
everybody was iu good looks and good spirits. Game, poultr}", 
and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in 
the villages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were 
thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring brisk- 
ly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy 
Ijranches of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to ap- 
pear at the windows. Tlie scene brought to mind an old 
writer's account of Christmas preparations : — " Now capons and 
hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — 
must all die— for in twelve days a multitude of people will not 
be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, 
square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be 
in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, 
whiles the aged sit b}" the fire. The country maid leaves half 
her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of 
cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and 



THE STAGE-COACH. 



259 
















r. ?i; 



<?'ilif, "^ 



ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and 

cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he 

will sweetly lick his fing-ers."' 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a 

shout from my little travelling comvoanions. Tliey had been 

looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recog- 
39 



2QQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

nizing every tree and cottage as they aj)proached home, and 
now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John ! and 
there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam !" cried the happy little 
rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant 
in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a superan- 
nuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat 
of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood 
dozing quietly by the roacl-side, little dreaming of the bustling- 
times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with wliich the little fel- 
lows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the 
pointer; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam 
was the great object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, 
and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they 
should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bounding 
and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands ; 
both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions 
about home, and with school anecdotes, I looked after them 
with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or 
melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of tliose days 
when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a 
holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few 
moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our 
route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country 
seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 
young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with 
Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. 
I leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the 
happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 



261 



In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 
inn, I saw on one side tlie light of a ronsing kitchen lire beam- 
ing throngli a window. I entered, and admired, for the hun- 
dredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad 
honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of 
spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels 
highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Cliristmas 
green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of l)acon, were sus})ended 
from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking 
beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A 
well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, 
with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon 
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting 
guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack 
this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over 
their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. 
Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and iijrwards under 
the directions of a fresh', bustling landlady ; but still seizing an 
occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, au<l have a 
rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene com- 
pletely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of 
mid-winter : 

Now trees their leafy liats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome liostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season d(jth require.* 

I had not been long at the imi when a post-chaise drove up 

* Poor Robin's Alinauae, lt!84. 



262 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of 
the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought 
I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, 
a sprightly, good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once 
travelled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up 
the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, 
and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient inter- 
view at an inn was impossible; and finding that I was not 
pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of observation, 
he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's 
country seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and 
which lay at a few miles distance. " It is better than eating 
a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can 
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashion- 
ed style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the 
preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoy- 
ment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I 
closed, therefore, at once with his invitation ; the chaise drove 
up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the 
family mansion of the Bracebridges. 




CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Beuedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the uight-mare and the goblin, 
Tliat is higlit good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

("artwrigut. 




T was a brilliant moonlight niglit, 
but extremely cold ; our cliaise 
whirled rapidh^ over the frozen 
ground ; the post-boy smacked 
his whip incessantly, and a part 
of the time his horses were on a 
gallop. "He knows where he 
is going,'' said my companion, 
laughing, "and is eager to arrive 
in time for some of the merri- 
ment and good cheei' of the ser- 
j^--J|T| vants" liall. My father, you 
:^:~^^ must know, is a bigoted devotee 
of the old school and prides 
himself upon keeping up something of 
old English hobpitality. He is a tolerable s})eci- 
men of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, 




264 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the old English country gentleman ; for our men of fortune 
spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so 
much into the country, that the strong, rich jieculiarities of 
ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, how- 
ever, from early years, took honest Peacham* for his text-book, 
instead of Chesterfield; he determined in his own mind, that 
there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable than 
that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and there- 
fore passes the wliole of his time on his estate. He is a stren- 
uous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holi- 
day observances, and is deeply read in tlie writers, ancient and 
modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed his favorite 
range of reading is among the authors who flourished at least 
two centuries since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more 
like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He even 
regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few centuries 
earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners 
and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main 
road, in rather a lonely pait of the country, without any rival 
gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to 
an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his 
own humor without molestation. Being representative of the 
oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great part of the 
peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in 
general, is known simply by the appellation of ' The Squire ;' 
a title which has been accorded to the head of the family since 
time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about 
my worthy old father, to prepare you for any eccentricities 
that might otherwise appear absurd.'' 

* Peacham's Complete Gentleman. ir,22. 



CHEISTMAS EVE. 



265 



We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and 
at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy 
magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top 
into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that 
supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. " Close 
adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, 
and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garri- 
soned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As 
the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a 
little primitive dame, dressed very much in the anticpie taste, 
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peep- 
ing from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesy- 
ing forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house 
keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; the}^ could not do 
without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the 
household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through 
the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble 
avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon 
glittered, as she rolled through, the deep vault of a cloudless 
sky. Tlie lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of 
snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught 
a frostj^ crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin trans- 
parent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds and threatening 
gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport : — '' llow 
40 



2(3(5 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on return- 
ing home on school vacations ! How often have I played under 
these trees when a hoy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for 
them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in child- 
hood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holi- 
days, and having us around him on family festivals. He used 
to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that 
some parents do the studies of their children. He was very 
particular tliat we should play the old English games according 
to their original form ; and consulted old books for precedent 
and authority for ever}* ' merrie disport f yet I assure you there 
never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the 
good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was 
the happiest place in the world ; and I value this delicious 
home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 
We were interrupted l)y the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, pupj^y, whelp, and liound, and 
curs of low degree," that, disturbed Ijy-tlie ring of the porter's 
bell and the rattling of the chaise, came l)(_)unding, open-mouth- 
ed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all. 

Tray. Blaucli. and Sweetheart, see, they bark at lue!" 

cried Bracebridge, laugliing. At the sound of liis voice, the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overjiowered by the caresses of the 
faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some magnitude, 
and seemed to bo of the architecture of difterent ])ei"iods. One 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



267 




wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow 
windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the 
fohage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of ghxss ght- 
tered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the 
French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who 
returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds 
about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of 
artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and 
heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with ui-ns, a leaden statue 
or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told. 



268 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its 
original state. He admired this fashion in gardening; it had 
an air of magnificence, was courtly and nol)le, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in 
modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican 
notions, but did not suit a monarchical government ; it smacked 
of the levelling system — I could not help smiling at this intro- 
duction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some 
apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intol- 
erant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was 
almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father 
meddle with politics ; and he believed that he had got this 
notion from a member of parliament who once passed a few 
weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument to 
defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, w^hich had 
been occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the 
building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the ser- 
vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and 
even encouraged by the squire, throughout the twelve days of 
Christmas, provided every thing was done conformably to an- 
cient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman 
blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, 
bob apple, and snap dragon : the Yule clog and Christmas 
candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white 
berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house- 
maids.* 



* The mistletoe is still liung np in farm-houses and kitchens at Christmas ; and 
the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls imder it, plucking each time 
a berry fiom the bush. When the berries are all plucked, tlie privilege ceases. 



CHEISTMAS EVE. 



269 



So intent Were the servants upon tlieir sports that we had to 
ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On 
our arrival being announced, the squire came out to receive 
us, accompanied by his two other sons ; one a young officer 
in the army, home on leave of absence ; the other an Oxonian, 
just from the university. The squire was a fine healthy-look- 
ing old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an 
open florid countenance; in which the physiognomist, with 
the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to 
change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the 
company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numerous family 
connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles 
and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, 
blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright- 
eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied ; 
some at a round game of cards ; others conversing around the 
fire-place ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young 
folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and bud- 
ding age, fully engrossed 1 )y a merry game ; and a profusion 
of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about 
the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, 
having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to 
slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 

Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. 

I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, 

and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to some- 

41 



270 THE 8KP:T('H BOOK'. 

thing of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fire- 
place was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, standing 
by a white horse, and on tlie opposite wall liung a helmet, 
buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers 
were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on 
which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of 
the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sport- 
ing implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous work- 
manship of former days, though some articles of modern 
convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been 
carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor 
and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the Avide overwhelming 
fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which 
was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth 
a vast volume of liglit and heat; this I understood was the 
Yule clog, which the squire was particular in having brought 
in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient 
custom.* 

* The Tiile dog is a 2:reat log of wood, sometimes tlie root of a tree, brought 
iuto the house with great ceremony, on Cliristmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and 
lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drink- 
ing, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Cliristmas 
candles ; but in the cottages the onl_v light was from the rudd_y blaze of the great 
wood fire. The Yule clog was to Ijuru all niglit: if it went out, it was considered 
a sign of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: — 

Come, bring with a noise, 
My merrie, inerrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 
While my good dame, she 
Bids ye all be free. 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 
Tlie Yule clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in England, par- 
ticularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected witli it among 



CHKISTMAS EVE. 



271 



It was really deliglitful to see the old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his an- 
cestors, and looking around liini like tlie sun of a system, 
beaming warmtli and gladness to every heart. Even the very 
dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his 
position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's 
face, wag his tail against the flooi", and stretch himself again 
to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an 
emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot 
be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at 
once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the 
comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found 
myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family por- 
traits decorated with holly and i\'y. Besides the accustomed 
lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed 
with greens, were placed on a highly -polished beaufet among 
the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with sub- 
stantial fare; but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a 
dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, 
being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I M^as happ}' to find nn' old friend, minced pie, in the retinue 
of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and 
that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him 
with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and 
very genteel acquaintance. 

the peasautiy. If a siiuinting- person coine to the liouse while it is hurnhig. or a 
person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining- from the 
Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



272 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge 
always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. 
He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old 
bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his 
face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual 
bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye 
of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking 
waggery of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently 
the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and 
innuendoes witli the ladies, and making infinite merriment by 
harping upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance 
of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It 
seemed to be his great delight during supper to keep a young 
girl next him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite 
of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat 
opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of 
company, who laughed at every thing he said or did, and at 
every turn of his countenance, I could not wonder at it; for 
he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. 
He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of 
his band, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket-hand- 
kerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, 
that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, 
by careful management, was sufiicient for all his wants. He 
revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet in 
its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another 
quite remote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive 
connections and small fortunes in England. He had a cliirping 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



273 



buoyant disposition, always enjoying tlie present moment ; and 
his frequent change of scene and company prevented his ac- 
quiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits with which old 
bachelors are so uncharitably charged. lie was a complete 
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and 
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made 
him a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all 
the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he 
was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he was 
master of the revels among the children ; so that there was not 
a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved than 
Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost 
entirely with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted In' jumping with his 
humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an 
old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen 
of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper removed, 
and spiced wines and otlier beverages peculiar to the season 
introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old 
Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and 
then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no 
means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a fdsetto, 
like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a ej^uaint old 
ditty. 

■' Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all otir neighbors together. 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer. 
As will keep out the wind and the weather," &c. 

Tlie supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was sunnnoned from the servant.s' hall, where he had 
42 



274 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance com- 
forting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He 
was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, 
though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be 
found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gen- 
tleman being fond of the sound of "harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; 
some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself 
figured down several couple with a partner, with whom he 
afl&rmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a 
century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connect- 
ing link between the old times and the new, and to be withal 
a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evi- 
dently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring 
to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces 
of the ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself 
with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her 
wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated 
all his sober attempts at elegance: — such are the ill-assorted 
matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of 
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little 
knaveries with impunity : he was full of practical jokes, and 
his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all 
madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the 
women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the 
young of&cer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing 
girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had 
noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a 
little kindness growing np between them ; and, indeed, the 
young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic gii'l. 



CIIKISTMAS EVE. 



275 



He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most young 
British officers of late years, had picked up various small 
accomplishments on the continent — he could talk French and 
Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolera])ly— dance divinely ; 
but, above all. he had been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl 
of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist 
such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and, 
lolling against the old marljle fireplace, in an attitude which 
I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little 
French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed 
against having any thing on Christmas eve but good old Eng- 
lish ; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for 
a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into another 
strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, gave Ilerrick's 
" Niffht-Piece to Julia." 




■es the glow-worm lend thee 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 



"Xo Will o' the Wisp misliglit thee; 
Nor snake nor slow- worm bite thee: 
But on, on thy way. 
Not making a stay, 
Since ^host there is none to affriirht thee. 



276 THE SKETCH BO(>K. 

'■ Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does shmiber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their liglit, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

" Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Tlius, thus, to come unto me. 
And when I shall meet 
Th}' silver}^ feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee." 

The song might or might not have been intended in compli- 
ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his j)artner was called ; 
she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, 
for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful 
blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that 
was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance; indeed, so 
great was her indifference, that she amused herself with pluck- 
ing to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the 
time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the 
floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking hands.. As I passed through the hall, 
on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog 
still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season 
when "no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half 
tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether 
the fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- 
ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days 
of the giants. The room was panelled with cornices of heavy 
carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strange- 



CHRISTMAS EVE. q-'j- 

ly intermingled; and a row of l)lack-looking portraits stared 
mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich, though 
faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite 
a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain 
of music seemed to break forth in the air just below the 
window. I listened, and found it proceeded from a band, 
which I concluded to be the waits from some neitjhborinsf 
village. They went round the house, playing under the win- 
dows. I drew aside tlie curtains to hear them more distinctly. 
The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement, 
partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, 
as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to 
accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened — 
they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they 
gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I 
fell asleep. 



;>^A'y^ki^^- 



'.#^^.5u/;>Aa<^' ^ , ,- -•• W 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



• Dark and dull night, Hie hence away, 
And give the honour to this day 
Tliat sees December turn'd to May. 

' Why does the chilling winter's niorne 
Smile like a field beset witli corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be." 

Herrick. 




HEN I woke the next morning, it 
fy seemed as if all the events of the pre- 
ceding evening had been a dream, 
and nothing but the identity of the 
ancient chamber convinced me of 
their reality. AVhile I lay musing on 
my pillow, I heard the sound of little 
feet pattering outside of the door, and 
a whispering consultation. Presently 
^" 1 1 a choir of small voices chanted forth an 
I old Christmas carol, the burden of which 
was — 

" Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning.'' 



I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door sudden- 



CHRISTMA8 DAY. 



279 




Ij, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the 
eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were 
going the rounds of the house, and singing at every chamber 
door; but m}^ sudden appearance frightened them into mute 
bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their 
lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a sliy glance 



280 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

from under tlieir eyebrows, until, as if bj one impulse, tliey 
scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I 
heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 
in this strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine 
stream winding at the foot of it, and a track of park beyond, 
with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance 
was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys 
hanging over it ; and a church with its dark spire in strong- 
relief against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded 
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would 
have given almost an appearance of summer; but the morning 
M^as extremely frosty; the light vapor of the preceding evening 
had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and 
CA^ery blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays 
of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the 
glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a moun- 
tain ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my 
window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few 
querulous notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories 
of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a 
Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small 
chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the principal 
part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, 
furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books ; the 
servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman 
read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



281 



Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses; and I must do 
him the justice to say that he acquitted himself with great 
gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite 
author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old church 
melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but I 
was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden 
sally of grateful feeling, wdth which the worthy squire delivered 
one stanza; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of 
all the bounds of time and tune : 

■■Tis tliou tliat crown'st ray glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And givest me Wassaile ])o\\ies to drink 

Spiced to the brinl^ : 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land: 
And giv"st me for my lnislicll sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was read 
on every Sunday and saints' day throughout the year, either by 
Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was 
once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and 
gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the cus- 
tom is falling into neglect; for the dullest observer must be 
sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households, 
where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in 
the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for 
the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated true 
old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations 
43 



282 THE SKETCH BooK.. 

over modern bi-eakfasts of tea and toast, wliicli he censured as 
among the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and 
the decline of old English, heartiness ; and though he admitted 
them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was 
a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called 
by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by a num- 
ber of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the 
establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old 
stag-hound ; the last of which was of a race that had been in 
tlie family time out of mind : they were all obedient to a dog- 
whistle which hung to Master Simon's button-hole, and in the 
midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a 
small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not but 
feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal terraces, 
heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried with 
them an air of proud aristoci-acy. There appeared to be an 
unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making 
some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that were 
basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in 
my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that, according 
to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must 
say a muder of peacocks. "In the same way," added he, with 
a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flight of doves or swallows, 
a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of 
foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, 
according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to 
this bird "both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he 



CHKISTMAS DAY 



288 



will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the 
intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at 
the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide 
himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on 
so whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were 
birds of some consequence at the hall; for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with his father, who 
was extremely careful to keep up the breed; partly because 
they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the 
stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because they had 
a pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an 
air of greater state and dignity than a peacock perched u})on an 
antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment 
at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to 
perform some music of his selection. There was something 
extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of tlie 
little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his 
apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the range 
of every -day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to 
Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master 
Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half a 
dozen old authors, which the squire had put into his liands, and 
which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit; 
as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter evening. 
Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry; Markham's 
Country Contentments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas 
Cockayne, Knight; Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three 
more such ancient wortliies of the pen, were his standard 



234 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

authorities; and, like all men wlio know but a few books, he 
looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on 
all occasions. As to his songs, thej were chiefly picked out 
of old books in the squire's library, and ada23ted to tunes that 
were popular among the choice spirits of the last century. His 
practical application of scraps of literature, hov/ever, had caused 
him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all 
the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood. 

While v/e were talking we heard the distant tolling of the 
village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little particular 
in having his household at church on a Christmas morning; 
considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; 
for, as old Tusser observed : 

'' At Cliristmas be merry, and thankful witltal, 
And feast thy poor neig'libors, the great with tlie small." 

'•If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established 
a musical club for their improvement; he has also sorted a 
choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the 
directions of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments; 
for the bass he has sought out all the 'deep, solemn mouths,' 
and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,' among the country 
bumpkins; and for 'sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious 
taste' among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though 
these last, he afl&rms, are the most difficult to keep in tune; 
your pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and 
capricious, and very liable to accident."' 



CHRISTMAS DAY, 



285 




As tlie morning, tliougli frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was 
a very old Ijuilding of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low, 
snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The 
front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that had been 
trained against its walls, through the den>e foliage of which, 
apertures had been formed to admit light into the small antique 
lattices. As we j)assed this sheltered nest, the parson issued 
forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as 



286 TIU^ SKETCH BOOK. 

is often fonnd in a snng living in tlie vicinity of a rich patron's 
table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, 
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and 
stood off from each ear ; so that his head seemed to have shrunk 
away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a 
rusty coat, with great skirts and pockets that would have held 
the church Bible and Prayer Book ; and his small legs seemed 
still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with 
enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was 
a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
printed in the Eoman character. The editions of Caxton and 
Wynkin de Worde were his delight; and he was indefatigable 
in his researches after such old English writers as have fallen 
into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, , 
to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investi- 
gations into the festive rites and holiday customs of former 
times; and had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had 
been a boon companion; but it was merely with that plodding 
spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any 
track of study, merely because it is denominated learning; 
indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration 
of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. 
He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they 
seemed to have been reflected in his countenance ; which, if the 
face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared to a 
title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking 
tlie o'rav-headed sexton for havino; used mistletoe among the 



ClIKIiSTMAS DAY 



287 



greens with wliicli the church was decorated. It was, he 
observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by 
the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though it might be 
innocently emploj^ed in the festive ornamenting of halls and 
kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church 
as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So 
tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged 
to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, 
before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on the 
walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and 
just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
which lay the efiigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, 
a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of 
the family who signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the 
same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service. Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed l)y a gentleman 
of the old school, and a man of old family connections. I 
observed too that he turned over the leaves of a folio Prayer 
Book with something of a flourish; possibly to show off an 
enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which 
had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently most 
solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye 
fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with much gesticu- 
lation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and })resented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads, })iled one above the other, among 
which T particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale 



288 "I'lII*^ SKETCH BOOK. 

fellow with a retreating forelicad and cliin, wlio })layed on tbe 
clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and 
there was another, a short, pursy man, stooping and laboring at 
a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald 
head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three 
pretty flices among the female singers, to which the keen air 
of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the 
gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cre- 
mona fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to 
sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiog- 
nomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see 
on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, 
the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumen- 
tal, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost 
time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and 
clearing more bars than, the keenest fox-hunter to l)e in at the 
death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been 
prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had 
founded great expectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder at 
the very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon 
was in a fever; every thing went on lamely and irregularly until 
they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us sing with one 
accord,"' Avliich seemed to be a signal for parting company: all 
became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got 
to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one 
old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinch- 
ing a long sonorous nose; who happened to stand a little 
apart, and, being wra})})ed up in his own melody, kept on a 
quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and 
winding all up hj a nasal solo of at least three l:)ars' duration. 



CHEISTMAS DAY. 



289 



The parson gave us a most erudite sermou on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not 
merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supportino- 
the correctness of his opinions by the earhest usages of tiie 
Church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theopliihis of 
Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom. St. Augustine, and a 
cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom he made copious 
(piotations. I was a little at a loss to ^^erceive the necessity of 
such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one 
present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that the 
good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; 
having, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ- 
mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controversies 
of the Eevolution, when the Puritans made such a fierce assault 
upon the ceremonies of the Church, and poor old Christmas was 
driven out of the land by jiroclamation of Parliament.* The 
worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew but little of 
the j)resent. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as 
the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Eevolution was 
mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had 
elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie throughout 



* From the "Flying Eagle.'' a small Gazette, published December ^ith, 1G.')2 — 
" The House spent nnieh time this day about the business of the Navj, for setthng 
the aflairs at sea, and before the}^ rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance 
against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 1 G ; 1 Cor. xv. 
14, 17; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, .Tolm xx. 
1; Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 : Mark xv. 8; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, 
in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Massemongers and 
Papists who observe it. etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time 
in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, 
and resolved to sit on the following day. which was commonly called Christmas day.'' 

44 



290 TllE SKETCH BOOK. 

the land; when plum porridge was denounced as "mere 
poperj," and roast-beef as antichristian ; and that Christmas 
had been brought in again triumphantly with the merry court 
of King Charles at the Eestoration. He kindled into warmth 
with the ardor of his contest, and the host of imaginary foes 
with whom he had to combat; he had a stubborn conflict with 
old Pryime and two or three other forgotten champions of the 
Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and 
concluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and 
affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their 
fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of 
the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the congre- 
gation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of sj^irit so 
earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in 
knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands; and the 
children ran about crying "Ule! Ule!" and repeating some 
uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, in- 
formed me had been handed down from days of yore. The 
villagers doifed their hats to the squire as he j^assed, giving 
him the good wishes of the season with every aj^pearance 
of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to 
take something to keep out the cold of the weather; and 
I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which con- 
vinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy 
old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of 
charity. 



'Ule! U]e! 

Three puddings in a pule; 
Crack nuts and lm-v T^le!" 



CimiSTMAS DAY 



291 




On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds 
of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears : the squire 
paused for a few moments, and looked around with an air 
of inex]3ressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself 
sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frosti- 
ness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had 
acquired sufficient power to melt away the thin covering 
of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out the 
living green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- 
winter. Large tracts of smiling ^'erdure contrasted with the 
dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every 
sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its 
silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the 



292 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



dripping grass ; and sent up sliglit exhalations to contribute to 
the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. 
There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the 
squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking 
through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing 
every heart into a flow. He jDointed with pleasure to the indi- 
cations of good cheer reeking from tlie chimneys of the com- 
fortable farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. "I love," said 
he, "to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a great 
thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure 
of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, 
the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed 
to join with Poor Eobin, in his malediction on every churl- 
ish enemv to this honest festival. 



^Vu-^. 




" Those who at Christmas do repine 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Dnke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 



The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this 
season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the 
higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor-houses were 
thrown open at day-light; when the tables were covered with 
brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the 
carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike 



t'lIKLSTMAS DAY 



l>98 



welcome to enter and make merry.* ''Our old games and 
local customs," said lie, "had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the 
gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times 
merrier, and kinder, and Ijetter, and I can truly say, with one 
of our old poets : 

• I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravitj^ of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports. 
Have thrust away much ancient honest}-." 

" The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost 
our simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder 
from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests are 
separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read 
newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. 
I think one mode to keep them in good humor in these hard 
times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time 
on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and 
set the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent: and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open house 
during the holidays in the old style. The country people, 
however, did not understand how to play their parts in the 
scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the 

* " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great daj', i. e. on Cin'istmas 
day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighljors enter his hall by daybreak- 
The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks went plentifully about with 
toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great 
sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take tlie maiden 
(i. e. the cook, by the arms, and run her round the market-place till she is shamed 
of her laziness." — Hound about our Sea-Coal Fire. 



2Q4: 'fflE SKETCH BOOK. 

manor was overrun by all tlie vagrants of the country, and 
more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in one week than 
the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he 
had contented himself with inviting the decent part of the 
neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, and 
with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that 
they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, 
their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats 
decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen 
advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of vil- 
lagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall-door, 
where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 
formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and 
striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the music ; 
while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of 
which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts 
of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many antic ges- 
ticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 
island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the 
sword dance of the ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly 
extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell 
the truth, it was too aj^t to be followed up by the rough cud- 
gel play, and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter- 
tained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



295 



squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true 
I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were 
raising their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's back 
was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each 
other the wink; but the moment they caught my eye they 
pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With 
Master Simon, however, thev all seemed more at their ease. 
His varied occujDations and amusements had made him well 
known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at 
every farmhouse and cottage; gossiped with the farmers and 
their wives; romped with their daughters; and, like that tvpe 
of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, tolled the sweets from all 
the ros}' lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affection- 
ate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the 
bounty and familiarity of those above them; the warm glow 
of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a small 
pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart 
of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the squire 
had retired, the merriment increased, and there was much 
joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon and 
a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be 
the wit of the village; for I observed all his companions to 
wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gra- 
tuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 

The w^hole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment: 
as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and looking through a wdndow that 
commanded it. I jierceived a band of wandering musicians, with 



296 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



pandean pipes and tambourine ; a pretty coqiiettisli liousemaid 
was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the 
other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the 
o-irl cauo-ht a glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring 
ui), ran off with an air of roguish, affected confusion. 




5^^ -^^ 



THE CHRISTMAS IMMR. 





"Lo, now is come our joj-ful'st feast I 
Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 

And Clu-istmas blocks are burning-; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without tlie door let sorrow lie. 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be inerrv." 

"Withers' Juvenilia. 

HAD finished my toilet, and was 

loitering with Frank Bracebridge in 

the library, when we heard a distant 

thwacking sound, which he informed 

me was a signal for the serving up of 

^Jj the dinner. The squire kept up old 

- customs in kitchen as well as hall; 

and the rolling-pin, struck upon the 

_,..,^_ '^ dresser by the cook, summoned the 

^^Jp serva;nts to carry in the meats. 



•■Just in this nick tlic cook knock 'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand. 
March'd boldly up, hke our train band, 
Presented, and awav."'* 




45 



* >Sir John Su( 



298 "^'^^^ SKETCH BOOK. 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire 
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling fire 
of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, 
and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide- 
mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his 
white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the 
occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round 
the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- 
stood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, bv the 
by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting 
and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly 
having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told that the 
painting had been so considered time out of mind; and that, 
as to the armor, it had been found in a lumber-room, and 
elevated to its present situation by the squire, who at once 
determined it to be the armor of the family hero; and as he 
was absolute authority on all sucb subjects in his own house- 
hold, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A side- 
board was set out just under this chivalric; trophy, on which 
was a display of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) 
with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temj^le: "flagons, 
cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers;" the gorgeous 
utensils of good comjoanionship that had gradually accumulated 
through many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these 
stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first 
magnitude; other lights were distributed in branches, and the 
whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound 
of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the 
fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more 
power tlian inelody. jS^ever did Christmas boanl dis])lay a 



THE CHRISTMAS DI>;NKK. 



i>99 



more goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances ; those 
who were not handsome were, at least, happy ; and happiness is 
a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. I always consider 
an old English family as well worth studying as a collection 
of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much 
antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physi- 
ognomies of former times. Perhajjs it may be from havino- 
continually before their eyes those rows of old family portraits, 
with which the mansions of this country are stocked ; certain it 
is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully 
perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an old 
family nose through a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed 
down from generation to generation, almost from the time of 
the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in 
the worthy company around me. Many of their faces had 
evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by 
succeeding generations ; and there was one little girl in particu- 
lar, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose, and an antique, 
vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, being, 
as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of 
one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry Ylll. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short, familiar one, 
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these uncere- 
monious days; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the 
ancient school. There was now a pause, as if something was 
expected ; when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some 
degree of bustle: he was attended hy a servant on each side 
with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on which was an 
enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in 
its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head 
of the tal)le. The moment this pageant made its appearance, 



300 



THE SKETCH EOOK. 



the liarper struck up a flourish; at the conclusion of which the 
young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with 
an air of the most comic; gravity, an old carol, the first verse 
of wliich was as follows: 




"Caput apri defero 
Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I. 
Witli garlands ga_y and rosemary. 
I pray yon all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio." 



Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, 
from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host; yet, I 
confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced 
somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
of the squire and the parson, that it was meant to represent the 
bringing in of the boar's head; a dish formerly served up with 
much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
tables, on Christmas day. "I like the old custom," said the 
squire, "not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, 
but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at which 
I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings 
to mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the 
noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering about 
in their black gowns; many of whom, poor lads, are now 
in their graves!" 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



301 






K K'-' 




associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at college. 
He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to 
give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations; 
addressing himself at first to the company at large ; but finding 
their attention gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, 
he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until 



302 THE SKETCH Houk'. 

he concluded his remarks in an under voice, to a fat-headed old 
gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion 
of a huge plateful of turkey.* 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing 
larders. A distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin," 
as mine host termed it; being, as he added, "the standard 
of old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and 
full of expectation." There were several dishes quaintly deco- 
rated, and which had evidently something traditional in their 
embellishments; but about which, as I did not like to appear 
over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently deco- 
rated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that 

* Tlie old ceremonj' of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is still ob- 
served in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a 
copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my readers 
as are cin'ions in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

" The boar's head in hand bear T, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes domino. 

" The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land. 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

"Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of BHss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero," 

clc. etc., etc. 



THE CIIKISTMxVS DINNER. 



308 



bird, wliicli overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was 
a pheasant pie, though a i)eacock pie was certainly the most 
authentical; but there had been such a mortalitj^ among the 
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself 
to have one killed.* 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete thino-s 
to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other make- 
shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavor- 
ing to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs 
of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown 
to his whims by his children and relatives; who, indeed, entered 
readily into tlie full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed 
in their parts; having doubtless been present at many a 
rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity 
with which the butler and other servants executed the duties 
assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned 
look ; having, for the most part, been brought up in the house- 
hold, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and 
the humors of its lord; and most probably looked upon all his 

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. 
Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above 
the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end tlie tail was 
displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when 
knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, wlience 
came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and Massinger. 
in his "City Madam," gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well 
as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times: 
'• Men may talk of Country Christmasses, . 

Tlieir thirty pound Initter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues ; 

Their pheasants dreucli'd with ambergris; the. carcases of Uir<-<' Jut ivcthtrs 
hrnlsed fur gravy to malie saiir(\fiir a single peacock.^^ 



304 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable 
housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge 
silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; 
being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. 
The contents had been prepared by the squire himself; for it 
was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly 
prided himself: alleging that it was too abstruse and complex 
for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a pota- 
tion, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap 
within him ; being composed of the richest and raciest wines, 
highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 

the surface.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene 
look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Hav- 
ing raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas 
to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every 
one to follow his example, according to the j^rimitive style ; pro- 
nouncing it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all 
hearts met together, "f 

* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with 
nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the nut-brown 
beverage is still prepared in some old families, ami round tlio hearths of substantial 
farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick 
in his ■' Twelfth Night:" 

■ Next crowne the Ijowlc I'ull 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye m(ist doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger." 

f "The custom fif drinking out of the same cup gave place to each liavins' his 



THE CHEISTMAS DINNEE. 



305 



There was much, laughing and rallying as the honest emblem 
of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly 
by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in 
both hands, and with the air of a boon companion struck up an 
old Wassail chanson. 




^t.,.>r< 






"The brown bowle, 
The merry brown bowle, 
As it goes round abont-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will. 
And driuk vour fill all ont-a. 



"The deep canne, 
The merry deep caune, 
As thou dost freely ({uaft'-a. 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugli-a."* 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family 
topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great 
deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with 
whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was 
commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the 
dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson, with 

cup. "When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three 
times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplein) was to answer with 

a song." — ARCU.EOLOGIA. 



* From Poor Robin's Alinanat'. 
4(> 



306 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the jDersevering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those 
long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, 
are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every 
pause in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in 
pretty much the same terms ; winking hard at me with both 
eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a 
home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased 
on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be; and he took 
occasion to inform me, in an under-tone, that the lady in 
question was a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own 
curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 
many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it 
ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy 
it is for one benevolent being to difPase pleasure around him ; 
and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making 
everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! the joyous 
disposition of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious; he 
was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; 
and the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in 
a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated ; many good things were broached 
which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not 
exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I cannot positively 
af&rm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly 
heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. 
Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much 
too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good humor is tlie oil 
and wine of a merry meeting, and tliere is no jovial companion- 



THE CliRISTMAS DINNER. 



807 



ship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, and the 
laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer ; 
though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of 
imagination to figure such a little, dark anatomy of a man into 
the jDerpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college 
chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their 
different lots in life. The squire had left the university to live 
lustily on his jjaternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment 
of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty 
and florid old age ; whilst the poor j^arson, on the contrary, had 
dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and 
shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of 
almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of 
his soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson 
and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks of 
the Isis, the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces,"' which, 
as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was 
indicative of laughter; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old 
gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries 
of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry 
land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and 
louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as 
chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew; his old 
songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk 
maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about 
the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered 
from an excellent blackdetter work, entitled "Cupid's Soli- 
citor for Love," containing store of good advice for bachelors. 



308 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and which he })romised to lend me: the first verse was to this 
effect : 

" He that will woo a widow must not dally, 

He must make hay while the sun doth shine • 
He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made 
several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, 
that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, 
everybody recollecting the latter part excepting himself The 
parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having 
gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most 
suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were sum- 
moned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private insti- 
gation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered 
with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to 
the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind 
of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old 
walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping 
games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and 
particularly at this happy holiday season, and could not help 
stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals 
of laughter. I found them at the game of blindman's-buff. 
Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed 
on all occasions to fulfil the of&ce of that ancient potentate, the 
Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The 



* • At Ohristmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a 
lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had _ye in the house of 
every nobleman of honour, or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall." — 
Stowe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. t>Q(j 

little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about 
E'alstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and 
tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about 
thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her 
frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, 
a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor; and, 
from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller 
game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and 
obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the 
rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company 
seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply 
ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some 
cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the 
library for his particular accommodation. From this venerable 
piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark, 
weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing out strange 
accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of the sur- 
rounding country, with which he had become acquainted in the 
course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to 
think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured 
with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse 
and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore 
over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and 
supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the 
neighboring peasantry, concerning tlie efligy of the crusader, 
which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only 
monument of the kind in that part of the country, it luul always 
been regarded with feelings of superstition by the good wives 
of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk 
the rounds of the churchvard in stormy nights, particularly 
47 



310 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

when it thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered 
on the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the 
church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the 
aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been left unre- 
dressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept 
the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of 
gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept 
watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton in old times, 
who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, 
just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble 
hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pave- 
ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the stur- 
dier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, there were 
many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing 
alone in the foot-path that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the 
vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought 
by the servants to have something supernatural about it; for 
they remarked that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the 
eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's 
wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in 
the family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, 
affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say, that 
on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, 
goblins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the cru- 
sader used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, 
ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church 
to visit the tomb: on which occasion the church door most 
civilly swung open of itself: not that he needed it : for he rode 
through closed aates and even stone walls, and had been seen 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



811 



by one of the dairy maids to pass between two bars of tlie 
great park gate, making liimself as tbin as a sheet of j^aper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much coun- 
tenanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, 
was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin 
tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held 
the porter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the 
marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and 
romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; 
for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of 
fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to tlie parson's stories, our ears 
were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from 
the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of 
rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girl- 
ish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came 
trooping into the room, that might almost have been mistaken 
for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable 
spirit, Master Simon, in the flxithful discharge of his duties as 
lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mum- 
mery or masking; and having called in to his assistance the 
Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe for any- 
thing that should occasion romping and merriment, they had 
carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been 
consulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rum- 
maged, and made to yield up the relics of finery that had not 
seen the light for several generations; the younger part of the 
company had been privately convened from the ])arlor and hall, 
and the whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imita- 
tion of an antique mask.* 

* Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports nt <'liristinas in old tiiiies: ami 



312 'J^HE SKETCH BOOK. 

Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," quaintly 
apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the 
asjoect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that 
might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably 
have figured in the days of the Covenanters. From under this 
his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, 
that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was 
accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame- Mince 
Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long 
stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young 
officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal 
green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. The 
fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress as " Maid 
Marian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in va- 
rious ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles 
of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with 
burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, 
and fall-bottomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast Beef, 
Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient mask- 
ings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the 
appropriate character of Misrule; and I observed that he exer- 
cised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller 
personages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, accord- 
ing to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and 

the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribution to 
furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have 
taken the idea of his from Ben .Tonson's " Masque of Christmas." 



THE CIIEISTMAS DINNEK. 



313 



merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the 
stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a 
minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. 
It was followed by a dance of all the characters, which from its 
medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits 
had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Dif- 
ferent centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left; 
the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the 
days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a 
line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, jmd 
this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of 
childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, 
and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding 
that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient 
and stately dance at the Paon, or peacock, from which he con- 
ceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a 
continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and 
innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see 
wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from 
among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off 
his apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful 
enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the con- 
sideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into 
oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England 
in which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed. 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pave, a pea- 
cock, sa3's, ''It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of (lancing it anciently 
was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in 
their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by tlie ladies in gowns with long 
trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock."' — Ilistorij nf 
Music. 

48 



314 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that 
gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; and 
as tlie old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, 
it seemed echoing back the joviality of long departed years.* 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me 
to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked 
by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — how is the 
world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas! is there not 
wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world ? And 
if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its 
ii:Q^rovement ? — It is so mucli pleasanter to please than to 
instruct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into 
tlie mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest de- 
ductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But 
in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disap- 
pointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these 
days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or 
beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now 
and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my 
reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, 
surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. 

* At the time of tlie first publication of this paper, the picture of an old-fashioned 
Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. The author had 
afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs above described, 
existing in unexpected vigor in tlie skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he 
passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some notice of them in the 
author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 



" J do walk 

Metliiiiks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' tlie Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow." 

Fletcher. 




AM somewhat of an antiqui- 
ty hunter, and am fond of ex- 
ploring London in quest of the 
relics of old times. These are 
principally to be found in the 
depths of the city, swallowed up 
and almost lost in a wilderness 
of brick and mortar ; but deriv- 
ing poetical and romantic inter- 
est from the commonplace pro- 
saic world around them. I was 
struck with an instance of the 
kind in the course of a recent 
summer ramble into the city; 
for the city is only to be explored to advan- 
tage in summer time, when free from the smoke and fog, and 
rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for some time 
against the current of population setting through Fleet street. 



315 'fHE SKETCH BOOK. 

The warm weather liad unstrung my nerves, and made me sen- 
sitive to every jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh 
was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with 
the bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle, 
when in a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd, 
plunged into a by lane, and after passing through several ob- 
scure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court 
with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and kept per- 
petually fresh and green by a fountain with its sparkling jet of 
water. A student with book in hand was seated on a stone 
bench, partly reading, partly meditating on the movements 
of two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an oasis 
amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet 
coolness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my 
spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very 
ancient chapel, with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive 
and rich architecture. The interior was circular and lofty, and 
lighted from above. Around were monumental tombs of an- 
cient date, on which were extended the marble effigies of 
warriors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon 
the breast ; others grasped the pommel of the sword, menacing 
hostility even in the tomb ! — while the crossed legs of several 
indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on crusades to the 
Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; and I do 
not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the world 
than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway of busy 
money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy sepul- 
chres, where all is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness. 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 3|7 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another 
of these relics of a "foregone world" locked up in the heart 
of the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull 
monotonous streets, destitute of any thing to strike the eye or 
excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic 
gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious 
quadrangle forming the court-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the 
portal of which stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity 
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting 
no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued 
on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched roof 
and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one end 
of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on 
each side ; at the other end was a raised platform, or dais, the 
seat of state, above which was the portrait of a man in antique 
garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and 
seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, that 
I had not met with a human being since I had passed the 
threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess 
of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow 
sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of 
colored glass ; while an open casement let in the soft summer 
air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an 
old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about what 
might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evi- 
dently been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate 
establishments built of yore for the promotion of learning, 
where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the cloister, 



3iy thp: sketch book. 

added page to page and volume to volume, emulating in the 
productions of his brain the magnitude of the j^ile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled door 
in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a num- 
ber of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, came 
forth one by one ; proceeding in that manner through the hall, 
without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me as he 
passed, and disappearing through a door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their apj^earance; their black 
cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this most 
venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the 
departed years, about which I had been musing, were passing 
in review before me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, I set 
out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I pictured to 
myself a realm of shadows, existing in the very centre of sub- 
stantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts, 
and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice had 
many additions and dejDcndencies, built at various times and 
in various styles; in one open space a number of boys, who 
evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their sports; 
but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray men in 
black mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, sometimes con- 
versing in groups: they appeared to be the prevailing genii 
of the place. I now called to mind what I had read of certain 
colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, 
necromancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were 
taught. Was this an establishment of the kind, and were these 
black-cloaked old men really professors of the black art ? 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye 
glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 3]^9 

and uncouth objects; implements of savage warfare; strange 
idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents and monsters de- 
corated the mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old- 
fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side 
by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, 
which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I 
was startled at beholding a human countenance staring at me 
from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old 
man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray wiry projecting 
eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it were not a mummy 
curiously preserved, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. 
It was another of these black-cloaked old men, and, as I regard- 
ed his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous 
and sinister objects by which he was surrounded, I began to 
persuade myself that I had come upon the arch mago, who 
ruled over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me 
to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I 
know whether a wave of his wand might not metamorpliose me 
into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles 
on his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, to be any thing but 
a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic 
and mystery with which I had enveloj^ed this antiquated pile 
and its no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an 
ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed house- 
holders, with which was connected a school for a limited num- 
ber of boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries since 
on an old monastic establishment, and retained somewhat of the 
conventual air and character. The shadowy line of old men 



320 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

in black mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and 
whom I had elevated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners 
returning from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I had 
made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of 
the place, and had decorated this final nestling-place of his old 
age with relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. 
According to his own account he had been somewhat of a 
traveller; having been once in France, and very near making 
a visit to Holland. He regretted not having visited the latter 
country, "as then he might have said he had been there." — He 
was evidently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof, as I 
found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates 
were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which 
languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; and a broken- 
down gentleman who had run through a fortune of forty 
thousand j)ounds, left him by his father, and ten thousand 
pounds, the marriage portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed 
to consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of 
lofty spirit to be able to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which I 
have thus beo;uiled the reader is what is called the Charter 
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on 
the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, 
being one of those noble charities set on foot by individual 
munificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of 
ancient times amidst the modern changes and innovations of 
London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen better 
days, are provided, in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 321 

and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine to- 
gether, as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been the 
refectory of the original convent. Attached to the establish 
ment is a school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking 
of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, " They 
are not to intermeddle with any business touching the affairs of 
the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, and take 
thaukfully what is provided for them, without muttering, mur- 
muring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored 
boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruf- 
fian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital men 
to wear." "And in truth," adds Stow, "happy are they that 
are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed 
in so good a place as these old men are ; having nothing to care 
for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in 
brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by the 
preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and 
who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of 
London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my 
hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig 
and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted short- 
ly after my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little 
dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal 
tales often j^assed off upon inquiring travellers like myself; and 
which have brought our general character for veracity into such 
unmerited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, I 
49 



322 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



have received the most satisfactory assurances of the author's 
probity; and, indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged 
in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in 
which he resides; of which the following may be considered 
merely as a foretaste. 




LITTLE BPiITAIN. 



" What I write is most true .... I have a whole boolve of cases l\-ing by 
me whicli if I should sette foorth. some grave aimtients (within the hearing of 
Bow bell) would be outof charhy with me." 

Nashe. 



*P3= 






X the centre of the great city of 
London lies a small neighbor- 
hood, consisting of a cluster 
(of narrow streets and courts, 
of very venerable and debil- 
itated houses, which goes by 
the name of Little Britain". 
Christ Church School and St, 
Bartholomew's Hospital bound 
it on the west ; Smithfield and 
Long Lane on the north; Al- 
dersgate Street, like an arm of 
the sea, divides it from the 
eastern part of the city ; whilst 
the yawning gulf of Bull-and- 
Mouth Street separates it from 
Butcher Lane, and the regions 
Over this little territory, thus bounded and desig- 
nated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the interven- 
ing houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria 
Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. 




of Newgate. 



324 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As Lon- 
don increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, 
and trade, creeping on at their heels, took possession of their de- 
serted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great 
mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific I'ace 
of booksellers ; these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating 
beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in 
Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they con- 
tinue to increase and multijDly even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline. Little Britain still bears 
traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready 
to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched 
with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, 
and fishes ; and fruits and flowers which it would pei-plex a nat- 
uralist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain 
remains of what were once S]3acious and lordly family mansions, 
but which have in latter days been subdivided into several 
tenements. Here may often be found the fjimily of a petty 
tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the 
relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling, time-stained apart- 
ments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous mar- 
ble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller 
houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient 
gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. 
These have their gable ends to the street ; great bow windows, 
with diamond jDanes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low 
arched door- ways.* 

* It is evident that the autlior of this interesting communication has included, in 
his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong 
immediately to Cloth Fair. 



1.ITT7.E BKITAIX. 325 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed 
several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the 
second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sit- 
ting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and 
set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a par- 
ticular respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, 
covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having 
seen better days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old 
palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, 
and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern- 
bottomed neighbors; as I have seen decayed gentry carry a 
high head among the plebeian society with which they were 
reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is 
taken up with a bow window; on the jianes of which are re- 
corded the names of previous occupants for many generations, 
mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, 
written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which 
extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has 
long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an 
idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill 
regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only indepen- 
dent gentleman of the neighborhood; and, being curious to learn 
the internal state of a community so apparently shut up within 
itself, I have managed to work my way into all the concerns 
and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; 
the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of Lon- 
don as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and 
fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holi- 
day games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most reli- 
giously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on 



326 TI'^ SKETCH B()()K. 

Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they send love- 
letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of No- 
vember, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 
Eoast beef and plum-pudding are also held in superstitious ven- 
eration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only 
true English wines; all others being considered vile outlandish 
beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; such as the 
great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; 
the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the 
Monument; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden giants in 
Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, 
and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a 
tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising 
the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- 
fortable by comets and eclijDses; and if a dog howls dolefully at 
night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. 
There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concern- 
ing the old mansion-houses ; in several of which it is said 
strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies — the former 
in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords ; the latter in 
lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, — have been seen walking up 
and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and 
are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their 
court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of 
the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman, 
of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shoji. 
He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projec- 
tions ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn 



LITTLE BEITAIN. 327 

spectacles. He is mucli tlioiiglit of by the old women, who 
consider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three 
stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in 
bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and 
is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspira- 
cies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last 
phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always 
some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with 
their doses ; and thus at tlie same time i^uts both soul and body 
into an u])roar. He is a great believer in omens and predic- 
tions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother 
Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an 
eclipse, or even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail 
of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples 
until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has 
lately got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he 
has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current 
among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, that 
when the grasshopj)er on the top of the Exchange shook hands 
with tlie dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful 
events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, 
has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been 
engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, 
and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the dra- 
gon and the grasshopper actually lie cheek by jole, in the yard 
of his workshop. 

"Others," as Mr. Skryrne is accustomed to say, "may go 
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here 
is a conjunction on tlie earth, near at home, and unck^r our own 
eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrol- 
ogers." Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. 
The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty- 
two years, had all at once given up the ghost; another king 
had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly — 
another, in France, had been murdered; there had been radical 
meetings in all j)arts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Man- 
chester ; the great plot in Cato Street; — and, above all, the 
queen had returned to England! All these sinister events are 
recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a dismal 
shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and asso- 
ciated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, 
bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of 
tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds 
of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads when- 
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never 
expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which 
in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of 
Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family man- 
sions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in 
the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of 
no little standing and importance; and his renown extends 
through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Alder- 
manbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, 
having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, togeth- 
er with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, 
and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable 
maxims which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. 
It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as 
England is true to herself, that any thing can shake her : and 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 329 

he has much to say on the subject of the national debt ; which, 
somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark 
and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the pur- 
lieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become 
rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins 
to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made 
several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighbor- 
ing towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking 
back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring 
to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coach- 
man of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes; 
and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the 
Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have 
been very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, 
but he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, 
and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea- 
voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and 
party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two 
rival " Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held 
its meeting at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by 
the cheesemonger; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the 
auspices of the apothecary: it is needless to say that the latter 
was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at 
each, and have acquired much valuable information as to the 
best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of church- 
yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron 
coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings 
as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their 
durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have hap- 
pily died of late; but they were for a long time prevailing 

' 50 



330 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being ex- 
tremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably 
in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a 
different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good humor 
over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a w^eek at a little 
old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of 
Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, wdth 
a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered 
with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such 
as " Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Eum, and 
Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This 
indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time im- 
memorial. It has always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, 
so that its history is tolerably preserved by the present land- 
lord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros 
of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by 
the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff prin- 
cipally prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth in one of 
his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors 
with his femous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as 
rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. 

The chd) which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by 
the name of "The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They 
abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are tradi- 
tional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of 
the metropolis. There is a macl-cap undertaker who is inimita- 
ble at a merry song; but the life of the club, and indeed the 
prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His 
ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with 
the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from 



l.ITTLE BRITAIN. 



831 



generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper little 
fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a moist 
merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the 
opening of every clnb-night he is called in to sing his " Confes- 
sion of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from 
Grammer Grurton's Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many 
variations, as he received it from his father's lips; for it has 
been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes 
ever since it was written : nay, he affirms that his predecessors 
have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and 
gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all 
its glory.* 

* As mine liost of the Half-Moon's "Confession of Faith" may not be familiar to 
the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little Britain, 
I subjoin it in its original orthograpliy. I would observe, that tJie whole clul) 
always join in the chorus with a fearful tliumping on the tal)le and clattering of 
pewter pots. 




I cannot eate but lytle meate. 

My stomacke is not good. 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
1 stuff my skyn so full within. 

Of joly good ale and oldo. 



332 



TIIK .SKETCH BOOK. 



It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club-night, the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then 
the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue 

Chorus. — Backe and syde go liare, go bare, 
Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 
Whether it be new or olde. 

" I have no rost, but a nut brawue toste, 
And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. — Backe and syde go bare, go l)are, etc. 

" And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 
Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle. 

Even as a mault-worme sholde. 
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 
Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. — Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

"Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 
Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles. 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives. 
Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Chorus. — Backe and svde go bare, go bare," etc. 




rX^ 



LITTLE BRITAIN. ooo 

ooo 

from this jovial mansion. At sncli times tlie street is lined 
with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into 
a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook- 
shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 
sensation in Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew's fair, 
and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the fair, which 
is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, tliere is nothing 
going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet 
streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange 
figures and faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. 
The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning, 
noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group 
of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe 
in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and sing- 
ing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum 
of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other 
times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. 
There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. 
Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and the 
Puppet Show ; the Flying Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire- 
Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The 
children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gin- 
gerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, 
trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain 
as the greatest potentate upon earth; liis gilt coach with six 
horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, 
with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in liis train, as the grandest 
of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea, that the King 



334 T^I^' SKETCH BOOK. 

himself dare not enter the citv without first knocking at the 
gate of Temple Bar, and asking jDermission of the Lord Mayor : 
for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing what 
might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides before 
the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut 
down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city ; 
and then there is the little man wath a velvet porringer on 
his head, who sits at the window of the state coacli, and holds 
the city sword, as long as a pike-staff — Odd's blood ! If he 
once draws that sword. Majesty itself is not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the 
good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an 
effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign in- 
vasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the 
Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the standing army of 
Beef-eaters under arms, and lie may bid defiance to the world! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its 
own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound 
heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself 
with considering it as a chosen spot, wdiere the principles of 
sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew 
the national character, wlien it had run to waste and degeneracy. 
I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that pre- 
vailed throughout it ; for though there might now and then be 
a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the 
burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon 
passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with 
a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind 
their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 




whicli I liave been present; wliere we played at All-Fours, 
Pope-Joan, Toni-conie-tickle-me, and other choice old games; 
and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance 
to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the 
neighbors would gather together, and go on a gipsy party to 
Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to 
see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted on the 
grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with 



336 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry 
undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at 
blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was amusing to see 
them tangled among tlie briers, and to hear a fine romping girl 
now and then squeak from among tlie bushes. The elder folks 
would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to 
hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a news- 
paper in their pockets, to pass away time in the country. They 
would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; 
but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a 
worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exact- 
ly comprehending the subject, managed somehow or other to 
decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are 
doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation 
creep in ; &ctions arise ; and families now and then spring up, 
whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into 
confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little 
Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simjolicity of 
manners threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family 
of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood: the Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, and 
put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, how- 
ever, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in 
attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on 
which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her 
head. The family never got over it ; they were immediately 
smitten with a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 337 

put a bit of gold lace round tlie errand boy's hat, and have been 
the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. 
They could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind- 
man's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which 
nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to 
reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the 
piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to an attor- 
ney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto un- 
known in these parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks 
exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edin- 
burgh Keview. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which 
they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors; but they 
had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, 
Red-Lion Square, and other parts towards the west. There 
were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Gray s 
Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three Alder- 
men's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be forgotten 
or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the 
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rat- 
tling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the 
neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at 
every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and 
there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out 
from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned 
and criticised every one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say 
to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give little 
humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, "quite," as 
51 



338 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

she would say, " in a friendly way ;*' and it is equally true that 
her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous 
vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be 
delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would con- 
descend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; and 
they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's 
anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsokenward, 
and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; 
but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the re- 
proaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossip- 
ing convocation every thing that had j^assed, and pulling the 
Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fashiona- 
ble was the retired butcher himself Honest Lamb, in spite of 
the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with 
the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe brush, and 
a broad face mottled like his own beef It was in vain that 
the daughters always spoke of him as ''the old gentleman," 
addressed him as "papa," in tones of infinite softness, and 
endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and 
other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was 
no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break 
through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor 
that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive 
daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue-cotton 
coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a " bit of 
sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his 
family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold 
and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes; and now 
and then throwing out a fling at "some people,'" and a hint 



LITTLE BEITAIX. 339 

about "quality binding." This botli nettled and 2)erplexed 
the lionest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with the con- 
summate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the 
circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up his after- 
noon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's ; to sit after dinner by 
himself, and take his pint of port — a liqiior he detested — and to 
nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and talking 
and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good 
lady within hearing. They even went so far as to attempt 
patronage, and actually induced a French dancing-master to set 
up in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain 
took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was 
fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with 
such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his 
lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery 
indignation on the part of the community was merely the over- 
flowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their 
horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contemj^t they 
were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French 
fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon 
perceived the infection had taken hold; and that my neighbors, 
after condemning, were beginning to follow their example. T 
overheard my landlady importuning lier husband to let their 
daughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they 
might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the 
course of a fcAV Sundays, no less than fi^^e French bonnets, 
precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, ])arading al^ont Little 
Britain. 



340 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

I Still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
away; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood; 
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices; 
and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the 
community. But unluckily a rival jDOwer arose. An opulent 
oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a 
family of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been 
repining in secret at the parsimony of a j^rudent father, which 
kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being 
now no longer restrained, l)roke out into a blaze, and they 
opeidy took the field against the family of the butcher. It is 
true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 
an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could 
speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and 
had formed high acquaintances; but the Trotters were not to 
be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in 
their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine 
colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to 
be behindhand : and though they might not boast of as good com- 
pany, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into fash- 
ionable factions, under the banners of these two families. The 
old games of Pope- Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely 
discarded; there is no such thing as getting up an honest coun- 
try dance ; and on my attemjDting to kiss a young lady under 
the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed; the 
Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter 
rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of 
Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- 
Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholo- 
mew's. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. g^l 

Thus is tliis little territory torn by factions and internal 
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and 
what will be the result would j)uzzle the apothecary himself, 
with all his talent at prognostics, to determine; though I appre- 
hend that it will terminate in the total downfoll of genuine 
John BuUism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle, 
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only 
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in 
high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet 
councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to 
agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself 
most horribly with both parties, by abusing their opponents. 
I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is 
a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension — 
if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and 
compare notes, I am ruined! 

I have determined, therefore, to l)eat a retreat in time, and 
am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, 
where old English manners are still kept up; where French 
is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken; and where there 
are no fashionable families of I'etired tradesmen. This found) 
I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old 
house about my ears ; bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to 
my present abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs 
and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little 
Britain. 




STILiTFOIlD=OK-AYO^. 

"Thou soft-flowing Avon, liy thy silver stream 

Ofthino-s more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed. 
For hallowed the tiuf is which pillowed his head.'' 

GARracK. 

TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which 
he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of 
something like independence and territorial consequence, when, 
after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his 
feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let 
the world without go as it mav ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so 
long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the 
time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair 
is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some 
twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of 



344 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life; 
it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : 
and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of exist- 
ence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and 
moments of enjoyment. " Sliall I not take mine ease in mine 
inn?"' thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my 
elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor 
of the Eed Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were jast passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the 
door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, 
inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under- 
stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream 
of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, 
like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting 
the "Stratford Guide-Book" under my arm, as a pillow com- 
panion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the 
jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the 
middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly 
given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild 
air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life 
into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth 
into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and where, 
according to tradition, he was brought ujd to his father's craft 
of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood 
and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



U5 




delight in liatcliing its oifspring in by-corners. The walls of its 
squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in 
every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and condi- 
tions, from the prince to the peasant; and present a simple, but 
striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of 
mankind to the great poet of nature. 
52 



346 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red 
face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with 
artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly 
dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the 
relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. 
There was the shattered stock of the very match-lock with 
which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. 
There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a 
rival smoker of Sir Walter Ealeigh : the sword also with which 
he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar 
Laurence discovered Eomeo and Juliet at the tomb! There 
was an ample supply also of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which 
seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as 
the wood of the true cross; of which there is enough extant to 
build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shaks- 
peare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy 
chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may 
many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolv- 
ing spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, 
listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth 
churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome 
times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one 
that visits the house to sit: whether this be done with the hope 
of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to 
say, I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privately 
assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent 
zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least 
once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history 
of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the 
volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair 



STKATFOKD-ON-AVON- 347 

of the Arabian enclianter ; for though sold some few years since 
to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way 
back again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs 
nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and 
local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all 
travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. 
What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long 
as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy 
all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like resolute 
good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion 
I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine 
hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, luckily, for mv 
faith, she pnt into my hands a j^lay of her own composition, 
which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me 
to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an 
embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the 
suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the 
river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the 
elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its 
clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are 
curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of 
foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. 
The graves are overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, 
some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with 
moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. 
Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and 



;->48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirp- 
ing; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gi"fty 
spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key 
of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy. for 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use 
of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows; and 
was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which per- 
vade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white- 
washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken talile, well rubbed 
and polished, lay the family Bible and Prayer Book, and the 
drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a 
score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that im- 
jiortant article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side 
of the room ; with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side 
of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. 
The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enougli to admit a 
gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's 
granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the oppo- 
site corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by 
the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his compan- 
ion from childhood. They had played together in infancy; they 
had worked together in manhood; they were now tottering 
about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short 
time they will probably be buried together in the neighboring 
churchvard. It is not often that we see two streams of exist- 



STKATFOKD-( )X-AVOX. 



849 




I ""ipii^ 




ence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only 
in such quiet " bosom scenes" of life tliat they are to be met 
with. 

T had hojied to gather some traditionaiy anecdotes of the 



350 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new 
to impart. The long interval during which Shakspeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over 
his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely any thing 
remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, 
and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who 
superintended the arrangements, and, who, according to the 
sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling." 
John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mul- 
berry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no 
doubt a sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare 
house. John Ange shook his head wdien I mentioned her 
valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to 
Shakspeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered 
that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to 
the poet's toml) ; the latter having comparatively but few visit- 
ors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and 
mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different 
channels even at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved 
doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the archi- 
tecture and embellishments superior to those of most country 
churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility 
and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and 
banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of 



STEATFORD-ON-AVON. 



851 




Shakspeare is in the cliancel. The phxce is solemn and sepul- 
chraL Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the 
Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up 
a low, perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where 



352 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to 
have been written by himself, and which have in them some- 
thing extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show 
that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural 
to line sensibilities and thoughtful minds. 

"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forljeare 
To dio: the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a 
resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely 
arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear indica- 
tions of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as 
much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vast- 
ness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the 
time of his decease — fifty-three years; an untimely death for 
the world : for what fruit might not have been expected from 
the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the 
stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of 
popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some 
laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, 
through which one niiglit have reached into his grave. No 
one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully 
guarded l)y a malediction; and lest any of the idle or the 
curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit 



STKATFOKD-ON-AVON. 353 

depredations, the old sexton kept watcli over the place for two 
days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. 
He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but 
could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was 
something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb 
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John 
Combe of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not 
connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place ; the 
whole ])i[e seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no 
longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect 
confidence : other traces of him may be false or dubious, but 
here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod 
the sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of 
Shakspeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long 
time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; 
and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought 
from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at 
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, 
in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed 
his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained 
exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to 
the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful cap- 
tivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, 
53 " 



354 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



his treatment must have been galhng and humiliating ; for it so 
wrought upon his spirit as to j^roduce a rough pasquinade, 
which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot* 

This flagitious attack u})on the dignity of the knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put 
the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer- 
stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puissance 
of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith 
abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his jiaternal 
trade ; wandered away to London ; became a hanger-on to the 
theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and 
thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford 
lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an im- 
mortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense 
of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged 
himself in his writings; but in the sportive way of a good- 
natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original justice 
Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's 
armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white 
lucesf in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet; 

* Tlie following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon: — 

"A parliament member, a justice of peace. 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse iu his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie. as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it." 

f The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 



.STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 355 

Ijut I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural 
to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, 
had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament 
has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to 
itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every thing 
eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the 
gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn 
out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakspeare's 
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daring- 
ly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an 
unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to 
be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous charac- 
ters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and 
was one of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old 
men shake their heads, and predict that they will one day 
come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas 
Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, 
and struck his eager, and, as yet untamed, imagination, as 
somethinsf delightfullv adventurous.'^ 



* A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his _youthfnl days, 
may be found in a traditionary anecdote, piclved up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, 
and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford, 
famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the 
appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the 
neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Strat- 
ford were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the number of 
the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb that "they who 
drink beer will think beer," was as true to liis ale as FalstaflF to his sack. The 
chivalry of Stratford w^as staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while 
thc}^ had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marclied a mile 
when, their legs failing them, thev were forced to lie down under a crab-tree. 



356 'I'lIK SKETCH BOOK. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still 
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly 
interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but 
eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As 
the house stood but little more than three miles' distance from 
Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might 
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shaks- 
peare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

Tlie country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery 
is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature 
of the weather was surprising in its quickening efi'ects upon the 
landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first 
awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the 
senses; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth 
the green sprout and the tender blade: and the trees and 
shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the 
promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, 
that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with 
its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cot- 
tages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard 



where they passed the night. It is still stauding, and g-oes by the name of 
Sliakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the hard, and proposed returning to 
Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with 

"Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton. 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford." 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus given 
them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor . 
Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is famous for the 
poverty of its soil." 



STRATFOKD-ON-AVON. 



357 



from tlie fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched 
eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note 
into his late querulous wintry strain; and the lark, springing 
up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into 
the briglit fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As 
I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, 
until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the 
cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to 
mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline : 




'• Aud winking mary buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet arise !" 



Indeed the whole country about here is 23oetic ground: 
every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every 
old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 
life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amuse- 
ment in winter evenings " to sit round the fire, and tell merry 
tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, 



358 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 




dwarfs, tliieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars.'"* 
My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and wind- 
ings through a wide and fertile valley, sometimes glittering 
from among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes 
disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; and 
sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure 
sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom 
of country is called the Vale of the E.ed Horse. A distant line 
of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the 



* Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witclicraft," enumerates a host of these fireside 
fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull -beggars, spirits, witches, urchinSj 
elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, 
centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calears, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, 
Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the 
fier drake, tlie puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such 
toiler bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



STEATFOKD-OX-AVON. 359 

soft, intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the 
silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, and under 
hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there was a stile, 
however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public 
right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospita- 
ble estates, in which every one has a kind of property — at least 
as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure re- 
conciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better 
lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds 
thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as 
freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of 
the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he 
sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying 
for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 
from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The e3^e ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the 
view but a distant statue; and a vagrant deer stalking like a 
shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that has 
the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended 
similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long 
duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time 
with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They 
betoken also the long-settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated 
independence of an ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy 
but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the 



360 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do 
mucli with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no 
such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining j)ark of 
Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
some of Shakspeare's commentators have sujDposed he derived 
his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting 
woodland pictures in "As you like it." It is in lonely 
wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep 
but cpiiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely 
sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination 
kindles into reverie and rapture; vague but exquisite images 
and ideas keep breaking ujDon it; and we revel in a mute and 
almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some 
such mood, and j^erhaps under one of those very trees before 
me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and 
quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have 
sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul 
of a rural A^oluptuary : 




ri 



•• Under the green wood tree, 
Who lo\^es to lie witli me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 
No enemy. 
But winter and rouu'li weather." 



STEATFUED-ON-AVON. 



301 




I had now come in sight of the liouse. It is a harge building 
of ])rick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen 
Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. 
The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may 
be considered a fair sjDecimen of the residence of a Avealthy 
country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from 
the park into a kind of court-yard in front of the house, orna- 
mented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gate- 
way is in imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of 
outpost, and flanked by towers; though evidently for mere 
ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is com- 
pletely in the old style ; with stone-shafted casements, a great 
bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial 
bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the build- 
ing is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weather- 
cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just 
at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down from 
the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or 
reposing upon its borders; and swans were sailing majestically 
upon its l)osom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, 
o-i 



g(32 'i'l'^' SKETCH BOOK. 

1 called to mind Falstaffs encomium on Justice Shallow's 
abode, and tlie affected indifference and real vanity of the 
latter : 

^' Falstaff. You liave a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shallorv. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all. Sir .Tdlin: — marry 
good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and 
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about 
the place ; the deer gazed cpiietly at me as I passed, being no 
longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only 
sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing 
with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on 
some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the 
carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the 
barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly 
abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of 
territorial power which was so strenuously manifested in the 
case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the 
mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old house- 
keeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her 
order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part 
has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes 
and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and 
the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the 
days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at 
one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons 



STEATF()ED-UX-AV( )N. 



363 




and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the liall of a 
country gentleman, have made way for family })ortraits. There 
is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for an .ample old- 
fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying place of winter 
festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic 
bow-wdndow, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the court- 
yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bear- 
ings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated 
in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the 
three ivldte luces, by which the character of Sir Thomas was first 
identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in 
the first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the 
Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his men, 
killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." Tlie poet had no 
doubt the offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the 
time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive 



364 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pom- 
pous indignation of Sir Thomas. 

" Shallow. Sir Hugh persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber matter of 
it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir Kobert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of i^eace, and coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and rataloruvi too, and a gentleman born, master jjarson ; wiio 
writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigerv. 

Shalloio. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him liave done't, and all his ancestors 
that come after liim may; they may give the dozen xvhite luces in their coat 

Shalloio. Tlie council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of Got in a 
riot ; the coimcil, liear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a 
riot; take j'our vizaments in that. 

Shalloiu. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword sliould end it!" 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the 
time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her 
head as she jjointed to the picture, and informed me that this 
lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away 
a great portion of the family estate, among which was that part 
of the park where Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the 
deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by 
the family even at the present day. It is but justice to this 
recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand 
and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas 
Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part 
of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vin- 
dictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it 
was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being an 
effigy upon Ids tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet 



STRATFOKU-ON-AVON. 



365 



of Charlecot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume 
and manners of the time. Sir Tliomas is dressed in ruff and 
doublet; white shoes with roses in them; and has a peaked 
yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, a "cane-colored 
beard.'' His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture, 
in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most 




* This effigy is in Avliite marble, and represents the Knigiit in complete armor. 
Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription; 
which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual 
level of Master Shallow : 

"Here lyeth the Lady .Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thom-is Lucy of Charlecot in ye 
county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye 
county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her hea- 
venly kingdom ye 10 day of February in yeyeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her 
age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfc a true and faythful servant of her good 
Ood, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her 
husband most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust 



368 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels 
are mingled in the fomily gronp; a hawk is seated on his j^ercli 
in the foreground, and one of the children holds a l)ow ; — all 
intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and are-liery 
— so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* 
I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former 
days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his i-ural 
domains ; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted 
Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant 
Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out 
pictures for my own entertainment, I })leased myself with the 
idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by 
his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, 
with their badges; while the Inckless culprit was brought 

was committed imto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her 
house, bringing up of youth in yo fear of G-od that did converse with her moste 
rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her 
betters; misliked of none unless of tlie envyous. When all is spoken that can be 
saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be 
equalled by an}-. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set 
downe by him j't best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

"Thomas Lucye." 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, " His 
housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs and serving-men attend- 
ant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his dis- 
course. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobihty, and is exceeding! 3^ am- 
bitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." 
And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " He kept all sorts of 
hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds 
both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow- 
bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad 
hearth, paved with Ijrick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 



STRATFOKD-()N-AV()X. 



367 




in, forlorn and cliopfallen, in tlie custody of gamekeepers, 
huntsmen, and wliippers-in, and followed 1)y a rabble rout of 
country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids 
peeping from the half-o})en doors ; while from the gallery the 
fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing 
the youthful prisoner with that pity "that dwells in woman- 
hood." Wlio would have thought that this poor varlet, thus 
trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, and 
the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of 
princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the 
human mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppressor 
by a caricature and a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and 
I felt inclined to visit the orchard and ai-ljor where the justice 
treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last vear's 



3g,^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

pippin of liis own grafting, witli a disli of caraways;" but I liacl 
already sj)ent so mucli of tlie day in my ramblings that I was 
obliged to give up any further investigations. When about 
to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the 
housekeeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment: 
an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we 
castlediunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no 
doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the 
Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his 
caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, 
as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pj-e, sir, j'ou shall not away to-night ... I will not excuse 
you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is no excuse 
shall serve ; you shall not be excused . . . Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of 
short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 
"William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Every thing brought them as it were 
before my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room opened, 
I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
quavering forth his favorite ditty: 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide!" 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the sin- 
gular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of 
his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things and 
places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this 
" working-day world" into a perfect fairy-land. He is indeed 



STRATFORDON-AVON. ggf) 

the true enclianter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, 
but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard 
influence of Shakspeare I bad been walking all day in a com- 
plete dehision. I had surveyed the landscape througli the 
prism of poetry, which tinged every object with tlie hues of the 
rainbow. I liad been surrounded with fmcied l:)eings ; with 
mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet which, 
to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jacques solilo- 
quize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Eosalind and her 
companion adventuring through the woodlands ; and, above all, 
had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack FalstafP and 
his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to 
the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten 
thousand honors and blessings on tlie bard who has thus gilded 
the dull realities of life with innocent illusions ; who has spread 
exquisite and unbought })leasures in my checkered path; and 
beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial 
and cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the A\'on on my return, I 
paused to contemplate tlie distant church in which the })oet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction, which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. 
What honor could his name have derived from being mingled 
in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and 
venal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What would a crowd- 
ed corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with 
this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness 
as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may 
be but the offspring of an over-wrought sensibility; but human 
nature is made u}) of foibles and })rejudices; and its best and 

tenderest affections are mingled witli these factitious feelings. 
55 



870 



THE SKKTCTI BOOK. 



He who lias sought renown about the world, and has reaped a 
full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no 
love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that 
which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks 
to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his 
early friends. And when the weary heart and failing head 
begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he 
turns as fondly, as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink 
to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard 
when, wandering forth in disgrace ujxjn a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
foreseei;! that, before many years, he should return to it covered 
with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory 
of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guard- 
ed as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening s])ire, on 
which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one 
day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, 
to guide the literary jjilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 




TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 



•■ I appeal to any white man If ever lie ent;ered Lo^^au's cabin Inmgiy, anfl he 
ave liim not to eat ; if ever be came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." 

Speecji of an Indian Chief. 



~ _ HERE is soinetliiiig' in the 
5^ cliaractei- and habits of the 
North American savage, taken 
^■^^ — ' in connection with the i^ceneiy 

-^- ^ over which he is accustomed 
to range, its vast lakes, bound- 
less loic^ts, majestic rivers, and trackless 
|\ plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully strik- 
ing and sublime. He is formed for the wil. 
derness, as the Arab is for the desert. His 
nature is stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to 
grapple with difficulties and to support privations. 
There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of 
tlie kindly virtues ; and yet, if we Avonld 1 )ut take the trouble to 
penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, 
which lock up his character from casual observation, we should 
find him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of 
those svinpathies and affections than are usually ascribed to 
him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, 
in the earlv j)eriods of colonization, to be doubly Avronged bv 




372 1'^^^^ SKETCH BOOK. 

the white men. They have been dispossessed of their heredi- 
tary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare; 
and tlieir characters have been traduced by bigoted and inter- 
ested writers. The colonist often treated them like beasts of 
the forest; and the author has endeavored to justify him in his 
outrao-es. The former found it easier to exterminate than to 
civilize ; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appella- 
tions of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction the 
hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest 
were persecuted and defamed, not because they were guilt}^, Ijut 
because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appre- 
ciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too 
often been the dupe of artful traffic; in war he has been regard- 
ed as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of 
mere precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful 
of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered 
by impunity; and little mercy is to be expected from him, 
when he feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the 
power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist 
in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned 
societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
to investigate and record the real characters and manners of the 
Indian tribes ; the American government, too, has wisely and 
humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing 
' spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and 
injustice.'" The current opinion of the Indian character. 



* The American g-overnment has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate 
tlie situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them tiie arts of civilization. 



TEAITS OF INDIAN CHAEACTEK. 373 

however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes 
which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settle- 
ments. These are too commonly composed of degenerate 
beings, corrii])ted and enfeel)led 1)y tlie vices of society, without 
being benefited b}^ its civilization. That proud inde})endence, 
which formed the main })illar of savage virtue, has been shaken 
down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits 
are humiliated and debased by a seuvse of inferiority, and their 
native courage cowed and daunted by tlie supei-ior knowledge 
and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has ad- 
vanced upon them like one of those withering airs that will 
sometimes breed desolation over a whole region of fertility. 
It has enervated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and 
superinduced upon their original bai'barity the low vices of 
artificial life. It has given them a thousand su})erfluous wants, 
whilst it has diminished their means of mere existence. It 
has driven before it the animals of the chase, who fly from 
the sound of the axe and the smoke of the settlement, and 
seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden 
wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers 
to be the mere wrecks and remnants of once ^jowerful tribes, 
who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk 
into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining 
and hopeless poverty, a canker of tlie mind unknown in 
savage life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and 
noble quality of their natures. They liecome drunken, indo- 
lent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like 



and civil and religious knowledge. To protect tliem from the fraud.« of tlie white 
traders, no purchase of land from them b}- individuals is permitted: nor is any 
person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanc- 
tion of government. These precautions are .strictly enforced. 



,^74 '^IlE SKETCH BOOK. 

vagrants about the settlements, among spacious dwellings 
replete with elaborate comforts, which only render them 
sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their own condition. 
Luxury spreads its am]:)le board befoi-e their eyes ; Ijut tliey 
are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields ; 
but they are starving in the midst of its abundance: the whole 
wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as 
reptiles that infest it. 

How difierent was their state while yet the undisputed lords 
of the soil ! their wants were few, and the means of gratification 
within their reach. They saw every one around them sharing 
the same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the 
same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof 
then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke 
curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by 
its fire, and join the hunter in his rejiast. '^ For,"' says an old 
historian of New England, '• their life is so void of care, and 
they are so loving also, that they make use of those things they 
enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compassionate, that 
I'ather than one should starve through want, they would starve 
all; thus they pass their time merrily, not regarding our 
pomp, but are better content with their own, wdiich some men 
esteem so meanly of" Such were the Indians, whilst in the 
pride and energy of their primitive natures: they resembled 
those wild plants, which thrive best in the shades of the forest, 
Init shrink from the hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the 
influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, w^riters have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggera- 
tion, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They 
have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CIIAKACTEIi. 375 

which the ludians have been phaced, and the peculiar principles 
under which tliey have been educated. No being acts more 
rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is 
regulated according to some general maxims early implanted 
in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, 
but few; but then he conforms to them all: — the white man 
abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how 
many does he violate ! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their 
disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with 
which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to 
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, 
however, is too apt to be cold, distrustfid, oppressive, and 
insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and 
frankness which are indispensable to real friendship: nor is 
sufficient caution observed not to ofibnd against those feelings 
of pride or superstition, which often prompts the Indian to 
hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The 
solitary savage feels silently, l)ut acutely. His sensibilities are 
not diffused over so wide a surface as those of tlie white man ; 
but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his 
affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer ob- 
jects; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably 
severe, and furnish moti^'es of hostility which we cannot suffi- 
ciently ap})reciate. Where a community is also limited in 
number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an 
Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the 
whole : and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneous- 
ly diffused. One council fire is sufficient for tlie discussion 
iind arrangement of a phin of hostilities. Here all the fighting 
men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstiti(^n combine 



376 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

to inflame the minds of tlie warriors. The orator awakens 
their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of 
rehgious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the 
dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an 
old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 
planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead 
at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's 
mother of some skins witli which it had been decorated. The 
Indians are remarkable for the reverence whicli they entertain 
for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tril)es that have passed 
generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by 
chance they have been travelling in the vicinity, have been 
known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by won- 
derfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles 
to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones 
of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have passed 
hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and 
holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been vio- 
lated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the 
following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue; a curious 
specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial 
piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath 
this globe, and lairds grew silent, I began to settle, as my 
custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, 
methought I saw a vision, at which my s|)irit was much trou- 
bled; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit ci'ied aloud, 
' Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that 
gave thee suck, the hands that lap])ed thee warm, and fed thee 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTEK. 377 

oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild people 
who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, dis- 
daining our antiquities and honorable customs? See, now, 
the Sachem's grave lies like tlie common people, defaced by 
an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy 
aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on 
our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my 
everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, 
all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some 
strength, and recollect my spirits that were fled, and determined 
to demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to 
show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been 
attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and 
generous motives, which our inattention to Indian character 
and customs prevents our ])roperly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their 
barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in 
policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though some- 
times called nations, were never so formidable in their numljers, 
but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; this was 
particularly the case when they had been frequently engaged in 
warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history, where 
a tribe that had long been f)rmidable to its neighbors, has 
been broken up and driven away, by the capture and massacre 
of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, 
therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify 
any cruel revenge, as to ])rovide for future securitj^ The 
Indians had also tlie superstitions belief, frequent among bar- 
barous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the 
manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by 
56 



378 



THE .SKETCH BUOK. 



the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not 
thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the 
slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection of 
relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is their 
entertainment, that when tlie alternative is offered them, they 
will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather 
than return to the home and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been 
heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was 
formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been 
exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot 
but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their 
ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gra- 
dual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting 
with injuries and indignities which they have individually 
suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by the 
wide-spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin of Euro- 
pean warfare. The whites have too frequently set them an 
example of violence, hj burning their villages, and laying 
waste their slender means of subsistence : and yet they wonder 
that savages do not show moderation and magnanimity towards 
those who have left them nothing but mere existence and 
wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, 
because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open 
force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code 
of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praise- 
worthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in 
silence, and take every advantage of his foe ; he triumphs in 
the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled 
to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHAKACTER. 



379 



more prone to subtlety than open valor, owing to his physical 
weakness in comparison with other animals. They are en- 
dowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with 
tusks, with hoofs and talons ; but man has to depend on his 
superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper 
enemies, he resorts to stratagem; and when he perversely turns 
his hostility against his fellow-man, he at first continues the 
same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do tlie most harm to our 
enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is 
to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which 
induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush 
in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and 
produced by education. It is honorable, because it is in fact 
the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance 
to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and 
security, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept 
alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of 
real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 
exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and 
stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme of 
spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and min- 
strel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction ; 
and even the historian has forgotten tlie sober gravity of nar- 
ration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its 
praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : 
monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence 
its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's grati- 
tude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has 
risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism: 
and arrayed in all the glorious ''f)<^"^P ^^'^^ circumstance of 



380 '^^^^^ .SKETCH BOOK. 

war," this turbulent quality lias even been able to eclipse 
many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently 
ennoble the human character, and swell the tide of human 
happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger 
and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it. 
He lives in a state of perj^etual hostility and risk. Peril and 
adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem neces- 
sary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his 
existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of war- 
fare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for 
fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship 
careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean; — 
as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its 
way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air ; — so the 
Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through 
the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may 
vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, 
or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, 
exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, 
and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are 
no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he 
sports, like a feather, on tlieir waves, and darts, witli the swift- 
ness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His 
very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. 
He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase: 
he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and tlie 
buffalo, and slee}>s among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can STirpass the Indian 
in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which 
he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed, we here behold him 



TKAITS OF INDIAN CllAKACTEK. 



381 




rising superior to tlie wliite man, in consequence of bis peculiar 
education. Tlie latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's 
mouth; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and 
triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of sur- 
rounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even 



382 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

takes a pride in taunting liis persecutors, and provoking their 
ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his 
very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his 
last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered 
heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he 
dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians 
have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, 
some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw 
a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are 
occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern 
provinces, which, though recorded with the coloring of pre- 
judice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt 
on with applause and sympathy, when prejudice shall have 
passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried 
into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from 
the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one 
place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, 
when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable 
inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escajDC, " all 
being despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After 
a series of similar transactions, " our soldiers," as the historian 
piously observes, "being resolved by God's assistance to make 
a final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted 
from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and 
sword, a scanty, but gallant band, the sad remnant of the 
Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge in 
a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sidlen by despair; 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHAKACTEK. 



383 




with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, 
and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their 
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insult- 
ing foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal 
retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, 
their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which 
means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the 
darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few 
broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods: "the 
rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in 



3^4 THE 8 KETCH BOOK. 

the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self- 
willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut 
to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke 
upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, 
we are tf)ld, entering the swamp, "saw sevend heaps of them 
sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, 
laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the 
muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of 
them; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more 
were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded 
more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without ad- 
miring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness 
of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught 
heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of 
human nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, 
they found the senators clothed in their robes, and seated with 
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs; in this manner they 
suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such 
conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous; 
in the hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen! 
How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance! How 
different is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, 
from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a 
wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that 
sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain 
of them in the thickly-settled states of New England, excepting 
here and there tlie Indian name of a village or a stream. And 
such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those other tril)es 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CIIAEACTP:R. 335 

which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled 
from their forests to mingle in the wars of white men. In a 
little while, and they will go the way that their brethren have 
gone before. The few hordes which still linger about the 
shores of Huron and Superior, and the. tributary streams of 
the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once 
spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along 
the proud banks of the Hudson; of that gigantic race said to 
have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna , and of those 
various nations that flourished about the Potomac and the 
Eappahannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley 
of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the face 
of the earth; their very history will be lost in forgetfulness ; 
and " the places that now know them will know them no more 
forever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them 
should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, 
to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns 
and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he 
venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness; 
should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, 
driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their 
fathers, hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down 
with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either 
turn with horror and incredulity from the talc, or blush 
with indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. — " We 
are driven back," said an old warrior, " until we can retreat no 
farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our 
fires are nearly extinguished: — a little longer, and the white 
man will cease to persecute us — for we shall cease to exist!" 
57 



PHILIP OF POKAXOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

■As mominieiital bronze, unchanged his look: 
A soul that pity touched, but never shook : 
Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear." 

(^'ampbell. 




;^ T is to be regretted tliut those early 
writers, wlio treated of the discovery 
and settlement of America, have not 
given us more particular and candid 
accounts of the remarkable charac- 
ters that flourished in savage life. 
The scanty anecdotes which have 
reached us are full of peculiarity 
and interest ; they furnish us with 
nearer glimpses of human nature, 
and show what man is in a com- 
paratively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. 
There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon 
these wild and unexplored tracks of human nature; in witness- 
ing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and 
perceiving those generous and romantic qualities which have 



PITTLTP OF POKANOKET. 337 

been artificially cultivated by society, veo'etating in s})ontaneous 
hardihood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the 
existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his 
fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold 
and peculiar traits of native cliaracter are refined away, or 
softened down by the levelling influence of what is termed 
good -breeding; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and 
affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of pop- 
ularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his 
artificial cliaracter. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the 
restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great 
degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses 
of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; and thus 
the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly 
great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where eveiy rough- 
ness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye 
is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, 
however, who would stud}^ nature in its wildness and variety, 
must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem 
the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume 
of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great 
bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the 
settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from 
these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may 
be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colo- 
nists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how 
merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The imagina- 
tion shi'inks at the idea, how many intellectual beings were 
hunted from the earth, how manv brave and noble hearts, of 



388 THPJ SKETCH BOOK. 

luiture'vS sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled in 
the dust ! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian war- 
rior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts 
and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number 
of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the 
Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, 
at the time of the first settlement of New England ; a band of 
native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle 
of which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in 
the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a 
thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit sub- 
jects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely 
any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like 
gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New 
World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their 
situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. 
Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing away 
through sickness and hardships ; surrounded by a howling 
wilderness and savage tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an 
almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting 
climate ; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and 
nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the 
strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn 
situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the 
Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent 

* Wliile correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the author is informed that a 
celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the story of Philip 
of Pokanoket. 



}*s. 



PHILIP OF P(JKAXOKET. 339 

of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number 
of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into 
which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for 
them a generous friendship, and extended towards them the 
rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to 
their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful 
of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; 
sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them 
the good-will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said of 
Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith 
of Massa«oit have never been impeached. He continued a firm 
and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them to 
extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the 
land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and 
prosperity. Shortly before his death he came once more to 
New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose 
of renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his 
posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of 
his forefathers from tlie encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; 
and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw 
off his people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English 
obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relin- 
quished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to 
bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been 
named by the English), to the residence of a principal settler, 
recommending mutual kindness and confidence , and entreating 
that the same love and amity which had existed between the 
white men and himself might be continued afterwards with his 
children. The good old Sachem died in peace, and was hap- 
pily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came u})on his tribe ; 



390 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

his cliildreii remained behind to experience the inu-ratitnde of 
white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his 
hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dic- 
tatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation ; and 
he beheld witli uneasiness their exterminating wars with the 
neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their 
hostility, being accused of plotting witli the Narragansets to 
rise against the English and drive them from the land. It 
is impossiljle to say whether this accusation was warranted 
by facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, 
liowever, ])y the violent and overbearing measures of the 
settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious 
of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and 
inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They dis- 
patched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring 
him before their courts. He was traced to his woodland 
haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, whei'e he was 
reposing witli a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils 
of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage 
offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irascible 
feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging 
fever. He was permitted to return home, on condition of send- 
ing his son as a pledge for his reappearance ; but the blow he 
had received was fatal, and before he had reached his home he 
fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King Philip, 
as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit 
and ambitious temj^er. These, together with his well-known 
energy and enterprise, had rendered him an oljject of great 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. gQj^ 

jealousy and appreliension. and lie was accused of having 
always cherished a secret and implacable hostility towards the 
whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have 
been the case. He considered them as originally but mere 
intruders into the country, who had }»resumed upon indulgence, 
and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He 
saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before them 
from the face of the eartli ; their territories slipping from their 
hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, and depend- 
ent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased by 
the settlers ; but who does not know the nature of Indian 
purchases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Europeans 
always made thrifty bargains through their superior adroitness 
in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of territory by easilv 
provoked liostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice 
inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury mav 
be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by 
which he judges; and it was enough for Philip to know that 
before the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were 
lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds 
in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, 
and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, 
he suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with 
the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokano- 
ket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the 
ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, 
which were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire 
form and substance: and he was at length charged with at- 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



392 '^'^^ SKETCH BOOK. 

tempting to instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, 
and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their 
oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the 
projDer credit due to these early accusations against the In- 
dians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to 
acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that gave weight 
and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded where 
talebearing met with countenance and reward; and the sword 
was readily unsheathed when its success was certain, and it 
carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural 
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his 
allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the 
looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as 
Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed 
his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds 
of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned 
his service and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain 
their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against 
their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and 
several of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing 
was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now 
gone too far to retract ; they had previously determined that 
Philip was a dangerous neighbor; they had publicly evinced 
their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility; 
according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these 
cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. 
Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards 
found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance 



I']IILIP OF I'OKANOKET. 393 

of his tribe, "^^riiree Indians, one of whom was a friend and 
counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the 
testimony of one very questionable witness, were condemned 
and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment 
of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions 
of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet 
awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to 
trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The 
fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in 
his mind; and he had a further warning in the tragical story 
of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after 
manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, 
exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving 
assurances of amity, had been perfidiously desjiatched at their 
instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about 
him; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause; 
sent the women and children to the Narragansets for safety ; and 
wherever he appeared, was continually surrounded by armed 
warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. 
The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, 
and committed various petty depredations. In one of their 
maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. 
This was the signal for open hostilities; the Indians pressed to 
revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war 
resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times 
we meet with mau}^ indications of the diseased state of the 
public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the 
08 



394 ''"H-t^ SKETCH BO(^K. 

wildness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage 
tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and 
had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of 
witchcraft and spectrologj. They were much given also to a 
belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians 
were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn- 
ings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect 
form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, 
which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a "j^rodigious 
apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in 
their neighborhood, " was heard the report of a great piece of 
ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable 
echo.''* Others wei'e alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by 
the discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle 
past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, 
seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied that they 
heard the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain 
monstrous births, which took place about the time, filled the 
superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many 
of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to 
natural phenomena : to tlie Northern lights, which occur vividly 
in those latitudes; the meteors which explode in the air; the 
casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the 
forest; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks; and to those 
other uncouth sounds and echoes which Mall sometimes strike 
the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland 
solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imagina- 
tions, may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvel- 
lous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour 

* Thf Ri'v. Iiicreiise Miitlicr's llistoiv. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 395 

wliatever is fearful and mysterious. Tlie universal ciiiTeney 
of these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of 
them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly charac- 
teristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often 
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. 
On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill 
and success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disre- 
gard of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of 
the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of 
death, and who had nothing to expect from peace but humilia- 
tion, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror and indignation 
on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst 
he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the 
whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor ; without 
considering that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting 
at the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his fam- 
ily ; to retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to deliver 
his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, 
had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been 
overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually 
broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual, 
exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the 
military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, 
in the prej udiced and passionate narrations that have been given 
of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying 
a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt of sufier- 



396 tup: sketch book. 

ing and hardship, and an unconquerable resohition, tliat com- 
mand our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw 
himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that 
skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to any 
thing but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered 
together his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores 
of mischief in the bosom of the thunder cloud, and would 
suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying 
havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then 
indications of these impending ravages, that filled the minds of 
the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a 
distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, 
where there was known to be no white man ; the cattle which 
had been wandering in the woods would sometimes return 
home wounded ; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking 
about the skirts of the forests, and suddenly disappearing ; as 
the lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about the 
edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the 
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from 
their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost 
to all search or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far 
distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his 
strongholds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend 
in some parts of New England ; composed of loose bogs 
of deep black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank 
weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing 
and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them 
almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could 



PITILIP OF POKAXOKET. 397 

tlirid their labyrintlis with the agility of a deer. Into one 
of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once 
driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare 
to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and frightful 
recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or 
be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the 
entrance to the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the 
thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors 
wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead 
of the night, leaving the women and children behind ; and 
escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war 
among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, 
and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated 
his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; 
whose coming none could foresee, and against which none 
knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded 
with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of 
Tibiquity ; for, in whatever part of the widely-extended fron- 
tier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said 
to be its leader. Many superstitious notions also were cir- 
culated concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, 
and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, 
whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms 
and incantations. This indeed was frequently the case with 
Indian chiefs ; either through their own credulity, or to act 
upon that of tlieir followers : and the influence of the prophet 
and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully 
evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected liis escape from Pocasset, 



398 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had 
been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the 
whole of his resources. In this time of adversit}^ he found 
a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Nar- 
ragansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great 
Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal 
of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to death at 
the perfidious instigations of the settlers. " He was the heir," 
says the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and insolence, 
as well as of his malice towards the English ;" — he certainly was 
the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger 
of his murder. Though he had forborne to take an active part 
in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken 
forces with open arms; and gave them the most generous 
countenance and support. This at once drew upon him the 
hostility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a 
signal blow that should involve both the Sachems in one 
common ruin. A great force was therefore gathered together 
from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent 
into the Narraganset country in the depth of winter, when the 
swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be traversed with 
comparative facility, and would no longer afford dark and im- 
penetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet liad conveyed the greater 
part of his stores, together with tlie old, the infirm, the women 
and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; where he and 
Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This 
fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon 
a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the 
midst of a swamp; it was constructed with a degree of judg- 
ment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in 



PHILIP OF P(^KAX()KET. 399 

Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these 
two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. 
The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several 
of their bravest officers were shot down in the act of storming 
the fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed with 
greater success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians were 
driven from one post to another. They disputed their ground 
inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their 
veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody battle, 
Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, 
retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the 
surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole 
was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, tlie women and the 
children, perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame 
even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods 
resounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered bv the 
fugitive warriors, as they beheld the destruction of their dwell- 
ings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and offspring, 
" The burning of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, 
'' the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the 
yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horriljle and affecting 
scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The 
same writer cautiously adds, " they w^ere in much doubt then, 
and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their ene- 
mies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevo- 
lent principles of the Gospel."* 

* MS. of tlif Rev. \\. Ruogles. 



400 



THE SKETCH BOOKV 



The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of 
particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of tlie 
noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which 
he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on 
condition of betraying Philip and liis followers, and declared 
^hat " he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become 
a servant to the English." His home being destroyed; his 
country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the 
conquerors ; he was obliged to wander away to the banks of 
the Connecticut; where he formed a rallying point to the 
whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the 
English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant for 
the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers 
had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the 
centre of the Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near 
Pawtucket River, when an alarm was given of an approaching 
enemy. — Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, to bring 
intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flisfht. He 



riJILU' OF I'OKAXURET. 



401 



^/j,]" 



;.v^^^,4;:-^. 




attemjDted to escape round the Lill, but was perceived and 
liotlj pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest 
of the Englisli. Finding tlie swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat 
and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew liim to be Canon- 
chet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipiied 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards 
confessed, ''his heart and his bowels turned witliin him, and 

he became like a rotten stick, \'oid of strength.'' 
59 



402 '^"'^^"^ SKETCH iHH)K. 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a 
Pequod Indian within a sliort distance of the river, he made no 
resistance, thougli a man of great vigor of body and boldness of 
heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his 
spirit arose within him ; and from that moment we find, in the 
anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of 
elevated and jjrince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of 
the English who first came up with him, and who had not 
attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, 
looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful C(nintenance, 
replied, " You are a child— you cannot understand matters 
of war — let your brother or your chief come — him will I 
answer." 

Though rej^eated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he 
rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of 
the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he 
knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with 
his breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he would 
not deliver uj) a Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's 
nail ; and his threat that he would burn the English alive 
in their houses ; he disdained to justify himself, haughtily 
answering that others were as forward for the war as himself, 
and " he desired to hear no more thereof" 

So n<')ble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the 
generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian ; a being 
towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion 
no compassion — he was condemned to die. The last words of 
him that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. 
When sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed 



I'llIlJP OF I'OKAXOKKT. 4Q3 

"that lie liked it well, for he should die before his heart was 
soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His 
enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot 
at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by 
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed 
of the native talents of a statesmaii, his arts were counteracted 
by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror 
of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the 
neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself 
daily strip})ed of power, and his ranks, rapidly thinning 
around him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others 
fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks 
by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured ; 
his chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; 
his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was carried 
into captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was com- 
pelled to leave liis beloved wife and only son to the mercy 
of the enemy. '"His ruin," says the historian, "being thus 
gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but aug- 
mented thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the 
sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, 
loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all 
family relations, and being stripj^ed of all outward comforts, 
before his own life should be taken away." 

To fill u}) the measure of Ids misfortunes, his own followers 
began to ])l()t against his life, that by sacrificing him they might 
purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of 
his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetanioe. an Indian 



404. THE .SKETCH B(A)K. 

princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of 
Philip, were betrayed into the bands of the enemy. Wetamoe 
was among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape 
by crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swim- 
ming, or starved by cokl and hunger, she was found dead 
and naked near the water-side. But persecution ceased not at 
the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, whei'e the 
wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no protection to 
this outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity 
to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of 
unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from 
the body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at 
Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They im- 
mediately recognized the features of their unfortunate queen, 
and were so affected at this barbarous spectacle, that we are told 
they broke forth into the " most horrid and diabolical lamenta- 
tions." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery 
of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to 
despondency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor 
had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was 
broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he looked 
around, and all was danger and darkness : there was no eye to 
pity, nor any arm that could Ijring deliverance. With a scanty 
band of followers, who still remained true to his desperate 
fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of 
Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he 
lurked about, like a spectre, among the scenes of former power 
and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family and friend. 
There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous 



PHILIP OF POKAXOKET. 4()5 

situation, than that furnished Ijv the lioniely pen of the 
chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader 
in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. "Philip," he 
says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the 
English forces thi'ough the woods, above a hundred miles back- 
ward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon 
Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, 
into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till 
the messengers of death came by divine permission to execute 
vengeance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen 
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to 
ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in 
silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sub- 
limity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. 
Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not 
humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, 
and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs 
of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and sidjdued l)y misfor- 
tune; Init great minds rise above it. The very idea of submis- 
sion awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one 
of his followers who proposed an expedient of peace. The 
brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed 
the retreat of his chieftain. A bod}^ of white men and Indians 
were immediately despatched to tlie swamj) where Phili}) lay 
crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware 
of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little 
while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; 
all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and 
made a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the 
heart l)v a rene^ado Indian of liis own nation. 



406 



TllK SKETCH llooK. 



-■Wf' - 




nMii;^ 







Such is the scanty story of the brave, liut unfortunate King 
Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored 
when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced 
anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may j)erceive in 
theni traces of amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken 
sympathy for his fate, and resj^ect for his memory. We find 
that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of 
constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial 
love and })aternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of 
friendship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son" 
is mentioned with exultation, as causing him poignant misery; 



1']1I],IP OF I'oKAXoKKT. 4()7 

the (leatli of aiiv near friend is triiiin})liantly recorded as a new 
blow on his sensibilities; bnt tlie treachery and desertion of 
many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, are 
said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of 
all fnrther comfort. He was a jDatriot attached to his native 
soil — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their 
wrongs — a soldier daring in battle, firm in adversitv, patient 
of fiitigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily sulfering, and 
ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, 
and with an untamable love of natural lil)erty, he preferred to 
enjoy it among the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and 
famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his 
haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and despised 
in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic quali- 
ties and bold achievements that would ha^'e graced a civilized 
warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the 
historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, 
and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness 
and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a 
friendly hand to record his strugsfle. 




JOHN BULL. 

' An okl song, made by an aged old jiate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
With an old study filled full of learned old books. 
"With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks 
"With an old l^uttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier," etc. 

Old Song. 




f^ HERE is no species of humor 
in which the English more ex- 
cel, than that which consists 
in caricaturing and giving lu- 
dicrous appellations, or nick 
names. In this way they have 
whimsically designated, not 
merely individuals, but na- 
tions; and, in their fondness 
for pushing a joke, they have 
not spared even themselves. 
One would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would be 
apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is 
characteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their 
love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have 
embodied tlieir national oddities in the figure of a sturdy. 



JOHN BULL. 4,09 

corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, 
leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus thej have 
taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most 23rivate foibles 
in a laughable j^oint of view; and have been so successful in 
their delineations, that there is scarcely a being in actual exist- 
ence more absolutely present to the public mind than that 
eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation; and 
thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in 
a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire 
peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The com- 
mon orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the 
heau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor 
to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before 
their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this 
I have especially noticed among those truly homebred and 
genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the 
sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth 
in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses 
that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If 
he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion 
about trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric old 
blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears 
no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensi- 
bility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance 
— he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and 
knicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and 
to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea 
of munificence — for John is always more generous than wise. 
60 



410 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue 
every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of 
being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited in 
the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, 
or rather they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a 
stranger who wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather 
much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of 
John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. 
Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists that are 
continually throwing out new portraits, and presenting differ- 
ent aspects from different points of view ; and, often as he has 
been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight 
sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright matter- 
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich 
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal 
of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in 
wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy rather than morose; 
can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad 
laugh; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn for light 
pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have 
his humor, and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a 
friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he 
may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to 
be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who 
thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the 
country round, and is most generously disposed to be every- 
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his services 
to settle his neighbor's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon 



JOIIX BULL. 41]^ 

if tliey engage in any matter of consequence without asking 
liis advice; though he seldom engages in any friendly office 
of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with 
all parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He 
unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of 
defence, and having accomplished himself in the use of his 
limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing 
and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. 
He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his 
neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the 
head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor 
does not require that he should meddle in the broil Indeed, 
he has extended his relations of pride and policy so completely 
over the whole country, that no event can take place, without 
infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. 
Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching 
foi'th in every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied 
old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so 
that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling 
his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from his 
den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of 
contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he 
only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into 
a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when 
victorious; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to 
carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he 
comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the 
mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist 
pocket all that they have been quarrelling about. It is not, 



412 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard 
against, as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out 
of a farthing; but put him in a good humor, and you may 
bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a 
stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, 
but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of 
pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about 
at boxing-matches, horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a 
high head among " gentlemen of the fancy :" but immediately 
after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be taken with 
violent qualms of economy; stop short at the most trivial 
expenditure ; talk desperately of being ruined and brought 
upon the parish ; and, in such moods, will not pay the smallest 
tradesman's bill without violent altercation. He is in fact the 
most punctual and discontented paymaster in the world ; draw- 
ing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance; 
paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every 
guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a 
whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may 
afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beef- 
steak and pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, 
broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the 
next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so 
much from any great outward parade, as from the great con- 
sumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of fol- 
lowers he feeds and clothes; and his singular disposition to pay 
hugely for small services. He is a most kind and indulgent 



JOHN BULL. 413 

master, and, provided liis servants humor his peculiarities, 
flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate 
grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to perfec- 
tion. Every thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow 
fat. His house-servants are well paid and pampered, and have 
little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly 
before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly 
about the door, and will hardly bark at a house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten ap- 
pearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast 
accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The 
centre bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is as 
solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. Like 
all the relies of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate 
mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been 
partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places 
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been 
made to the original edifice from time to time, and great altera- 
tions have taken place ; towers and battlements have been 
erected during wars and tumults ; wings built in time of peace ; 
and out-houses, lodges, and ofl&ces, run up according to the 
whim or convenience of different generations, until it has 
become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imagina- 
ble. An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a 
reverend pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, 
and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at 
various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. 
Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's an- 
cestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and 
well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to 



414 THE SKETni BOOK. 

Church services, mav doze comfortably in the discharsre. of their 
duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he 
is stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the cir- 
cumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in 
his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has 
had quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most 
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, 
who always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks 
discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when 
refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read 
their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all. to pay their rents 
punctually, and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, some- 
what heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn 
magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, though 
faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy, gorgeous 
old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive 
cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the 
roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern fes- 
tivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however, 
complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn ; 
and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay ; so that in 
high winds there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of 
the household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts 
pulled down and the others strengthened with their materials ; 
but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He 



JOHN BULL. 415 

swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and 
weather proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has 
stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to 
tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, his family 
is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be com- 
fortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular 
construction, these result from its being the growth of cen- 
turies, and being improved by the wisdom of every generation — 
that an old family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; 
new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug 
boxes ; but an old English flimily should inhabit an old English 
manor-house. If you point out any part of the building as 
superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or 
decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the whole ; and 
swears that the parts are so built into each other, that if you 
pull down one, you run the risk of having the whole about 
your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition 
to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the 
dignity of an ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in 
its appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, 
partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes 
it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his superan- 
nuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
establishments, his manor is encumbered by old retainers whom 
he cannot turn oif, and an old style which he cannot lay down. 
His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all 
its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a 
nook or coi'ner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired 



416 THE SKETCH BUOK. 



•>)' 



heroes of the buttery and tlie larder, are seen lolling about its 
walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sun- 
ning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every ofl&ce 
and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their 
families ; for they are amazingly prolific, and, when they die off, 
are sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be pro- 
vided for. A mattock cannot be struck against the most 
mouldering tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny 
or loop-hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, 
who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most 
grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the 
head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal 
that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man, 
who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is 
sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where 
his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed 
for the remainder of their existence — a worthy example of grate- 
ful recollection, which if some of his neighbors were to imitate, 
would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great 
pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell 
on their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with 
some little vainglory, of the perilous adventures and hardy ex- 
ploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages, and family encumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His 
manor is infested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not suffer 
them to be driven off, because they have infested the place time 
out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every generation 
of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be 
lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest it 



JOHN BULL. 417 

should molest the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but they are 
hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have 
neai'ly choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins 
build in every frieze and cornice ; crows flutter about the 
towers, and perch on every weather-cock ; and old gray-headed 
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in and 
ont of t4ieir holes undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, 
John has such a reverence for every thing that has been long in 
the family, that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed, 
because they are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to drain 
the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctu- 
ality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the 
neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting 
his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the alterca- 
tions and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in 
his family. His children have been brought up to different 
callings, and are of different ways of thinking ; and as they 
have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do 
not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the pres- 
ent posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the 
race, and are clear that the old establishment should be kept up 
in all its state, whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more 
prudent and considerate, entreat tlie old gentleman to retrench 
his expenses, and tQj. put his wdiole system of housekeeping 
on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed 
inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice 
has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of 
one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather 

low habits, wlio neglects liis business to frequent ule-liouses — is 
HI 



418 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the 
poorest of his father s tenants. No sooner does he hear any of 
his brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, 
takes the words out of their months, and roars out for an over- 
turn. When his tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He 
rants about the room ; hectors the old man about his spend- 
thrift practices ; ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he 
shall turn the old servants out of doors ; give the broken-down 
horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a 
field-preacher in his place — nay, that the whole family mansion 
shall be levelled with the ground, and a })lain one of brick 
and mortar built in its place. He rails at every social enter- 
tainment and family festivity, and skulks away growling to the 
ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the door. Though 
constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, vet he 
scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern 
convocations,, and even runs up scores for the liquor over which 
he preaches about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agi-ees 
with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so irri- 
table, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrench- 
ment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavei'n 
oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal 
discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have 
frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, 
that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer wdjo 
has served abroad, but is at present living at home, on half-pay. 
This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong ; 
likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering life ; and is ready 
at a wink or nod to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, 
if he dares to arrav himself asainst paternal authoritv. 



JOHN I'.TLL. 41(1) 

These family dissensions, as usual, have g-ot abroad, and are 
rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People begin to 
look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are men- 
tioned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad with him 
as represented ; but when a man's own cliildren begin to rail at 
his extravagance, things must be badly managed. They under- 
stand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually 
dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly an open-handed 
old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they 
never knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a 
very fine one, and has been in the family a long time ; but, 
for all that, they have known many finer estates cpme to the 
hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary em- 
barrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man 
himself Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug 
rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late become as 
shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold- 
laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those pros- 
perous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs 
loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather 
breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have 
much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his 
once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cor- 
nered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing 
it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; 
looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave 
of a catch or a drinking-song; he now goes about whistling 
thoughtfully to himself, with his liend drooping down, his 



j.20 TlIK SKETCH r.< )()!>:. 

cudgel tucked under his arm, and liis hands thrust to the bottom 
of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all 
this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If 
you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes 
fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest 
fellow in the country; talks of laying out large sums to adorn 
his honse or bny another estate ; and with a valiant swagger 
and gi'asping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another 
bout at quarter-staff. 

Thougli there may be something rather whimsical in all this, 
yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without 
strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and 
obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may 
not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he 
is at least twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His 
virtues are all his own ; all plain, homebred, and unaffected. 
His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. 
His extravagance savors of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness 
of his courage ; his credulity of his open faith ; his vanity of 
his pride ; and his bluntuess of his sincerity. They are all the 
redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is like his 
own oak, rough without, but sound and solid within ; whose 
bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and 
grandeur of the timber; and whose branches make a fearful 
groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their very 
magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the 
appearance of his old family mansion that is extremely poetical 
and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be rendered comfortably 
habitable, I should almost tremble to see it meddled with, 
during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his 



.roHX p.n.L 421 

advisers are no doubt good architects, tliat might be of service; 
but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they had once 
got to work with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would 
never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps 
buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that 
John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in future ; 
that he may cease to distress his mind about other people s 
affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote 
the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the 
world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cultivate his rich 
estate according to his fancy ; husband his income — if he thinks 
proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if he can ; renew 
the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his 
paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

".May no wolfe hovvle; no screecli owle stir 
A wing about thy sepulclire ! 
Xo boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 
To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring. 
Love kept it ever floui-ishing." 

Herrick. 



N the course of an excursion through 
one of tlie remote counties of England, 
I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more seclud- 
ed parts of the country, and stopped one 
^ afternoon at a village, the situation of 
which was beautifully rural and retired. 
%\Pi There was an air of primitive simplicity 
about its inhabitants, not to be found in 
the villages which lie on the great coach- 
roads. I determined to pass the night 
there, and, having taken an early dinner, 
;/^ strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led 
me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the 
village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old 
tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and 
there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically 




TUE PKIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



428 




carved ornament, j^^ered tlu'ougli the verdant coverino-. It 
was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been 
dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared up; and 
though sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a 
broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature 
with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a 
good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, 
and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he 
will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself (^ii a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and 
those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melan- 
choly fancving, wliich l;^s in it something sweeter even than 
pleasure. Everv now and then, the stroke of a bell from 
the neiahborinu tower fell on mv ear; its tones were in 



424 THE SKp:Tcn book. 

unison with tlie scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with 
my feelings ; and it was some time before I recollected that it 
must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reappeared 
through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place 
where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, 
dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, 
walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers — a token that 
the deceased was a young and unmarried female. The corjise 
was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple 
of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress 
his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply 
furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing within. 
His Avife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive 
bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 
in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
of white gloves, was hung over the seat which the deceased 
had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some 
one he has loved to the tomb ? but when j^erformed over the 
remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom 
of existence — what can be more aftecting ? At that simple, but 
most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — " Earth to 
earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust !" — the tears of the youth- 
fnl companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The 
father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort 
himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die 
in the Lord; but the mother onlv thouo-ht of her child as a 



THE I'KIDK OF Tllb: VILLAGE. 425 

flower of the field cut clown and ^vitllered in tlie midst of its 
sweetness; she was like Rachel, ''mourning over her children, 
and would not he comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole storv of the 
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her 
father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in 
circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up en- 
tirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 5^ 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little 
flock. The good man watched over her education with pater- 
nal care; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she 
was to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to 
her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness 
and indulgence of her pai'ents, and the exemption from all 
ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy 
of character, that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her 
form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, 
blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by 
the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her man- 
ners. It might be truly said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; notliing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noljle for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still 

retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 

festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some ftiint 

observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 
62 



426 '^^^^^ SKETrH BOOK. 

had been promoted by its present pastor, wbo was a lover of 
old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their 
mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will 
among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from 
year to year in the centre of the Anllage green; on May-day it 
was decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or 
lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside 
at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The 
"S^ picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its 

rustic ft'tes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. 
Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose 
regiment had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. 
He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this 
village pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness 
of the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was 
crowned with flowers, and l:)lushing and smiling in all the 
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The 
artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her 
acquaintance; he gradually won his way into her intimacy; 
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which 
young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in liis advances to startle or alarm. He 
never even talked of lo\e: but there are modes of making- 
it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely 
and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone 
of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every 
word, and look, and action — these form • the true eloquence 
of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never 
described. Can we wonder that they should readily win a 
heart, young, guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved 
almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what w\as the 



TFIK I'lilOK OF TIIK \-|l.LAGK. 427 

growing passion that was absorbing every tlioiiglit and feeling, 
or what were to l)e its consequences. She, indeed, looked not 
to the future. When present, his looks and words oc(-'Upied 
her wdiole attention; when absent, she thought but of what 
had passed at their recent interview. She would wander with 
him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
He taught her to see new beauties in nature; he talked in the 
language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear 
the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the 
sexes more pure than this innocent giii's. The gallant figure 
of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, 
might at first have charmed her eye; but it was not these 
that had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something 
in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a 
superior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a 
mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened 
to a keen ])erception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid 
distinctions of rank and fortune she thought nothing; it was 
the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those 
of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that 
elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with 
charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her 
cheek would mantle with enthusiasm; or, if ever she ventured 
a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, 
and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
un worthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser natui'e. He had begun tlie 
connection in levity; lor he had often heiird his l)rothcr 
ofl&cers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 



^28 T^^'*^ SKETCH BOOK. 

triumph of the kind necessar}^ to his reputation as a man of 
spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had 
not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wander- 
ing and a dissipated life ; it caught fire from the very flame it 
sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the nature of his 
situation, he became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which 
so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank 
in life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence 
upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him to think 
of matrimony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent 
being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her man- 
ners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in 
her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did 
he try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples 
of men of fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment 
with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them 
talk of female virtue : whenever he came into her presence, she 
was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm 
of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought 
can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to 
the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- 
mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolu- 
tion ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for 
marching was at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the 
course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon 
it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the 
guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 429 

kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with 
ii repulse, for thei'e are moments of mingled sorrow and tender- 
ness which hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally 
impetuous ; and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his 
arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of 
losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his better 
feelings — he ventured to propose tliat she should leave her 
home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 
at his own l)aseness; but so innocent of mind was his intended 
victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his 
meaning ; and why she should leave her native village, and the 
humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his 
proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. 
She did not wee}) — she did not break forth into reproach — she 
said not a word — Init she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; 
gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, 
clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's 
cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what niiglit have been the result of the conflict 
of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the 
bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his 
tenderness; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, bis 
thoughts wc^uld sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural 
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath 
alono; the silver brook and ui) the hawthorn hedee, and the 
little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and 
listenins: to liini with eves beaminu' with unconscious affection. 



^30 ''"'"' ^KKTCH BOOK. 

The shock which tlie poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
tion of all lier ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings 
and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were 
succeeded l)y a settled and pining melancholy. She had 
beheld from her window the march of tlie departing troops. 
She liad seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, 
amidst the sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. 
She strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun 
glittered about his figure, and liis plume waved in the Ijreeze ; 
he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her 
all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had 
most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken 
deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the 
barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would 
be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch, of the village 
church; and the milkmaids, returning from the fields, would 
now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the 
hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at 
church ; and as the old people saw her ajjproach, so wasted 
away, yet with a hectic gloom, and that hallowed air which 
melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for 
her, as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would 
shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but 
looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that 
had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be 
no more ])leasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had 
entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 43]^ 

Slie was incapable of angiy passions; and in a moment of 
saddened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
couched in the simplest language, but touching from its vei-\- 
simplicity. She told him that she was dving, and did not 
conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even 
depicted the sufferings which she had experienced ; but con- 
cluded with saying, that she could not die in peace until she 
had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength so declined, that she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, 
propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, 
nor imparted to any one the malady that was preying on 
her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name ; but 
would lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. 
Her poor parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blos- 
som of tlieir hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again 
revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which 
sometimes flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning 
health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday after- 
noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible : 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of 
heaven : it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through 
her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church : 
the bell had tolled fjr the evening service ; the last villager was 
lagging into the porch ; and every thing had sunk into that 



432 



TIIK .sKETCJi Book. 




hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were 
gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, 
which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers the 
expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue 
eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or were her 
thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose 
bosom she niisht soon be gathered? 



TIIK I'lMDK (IF TIIK VILLA(4K. 433 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk hack in 
her chair: it was her repentant lover! He ruslied into 
the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her 
wasted form — her deathlike countenance — so wan, yet so 
lovely in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, and he 
threw himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to 
rise — she attempted to extend her treml)ling hand — her lips 
moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she 
looked down upon him with a smile of urmtterable tender 
ness, — and closed her eyes forever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little 
novelty to i-ecommend them. In the present rage also for 
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear 
trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the 
time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony 
which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my 
mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature- 
I have passed through the place since, and visited tlie church 
again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 
wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the 
churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the ^vind rustled 
coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, how^ever, had been 
planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were 
bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped iu. Tliere liung 

tlie chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the 

fijneral ; the flowers M^ere withered, it is true, but care seemed 

to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. 

63 



434 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



I have seen many monuments, where art lias exhausted its 
powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have 
met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than 
tliis simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. 




THE AXOLEK. 

'Tliis day dame Kature seem'd in lovn, 
The lusty sap began to move, 
Fresh juiee did stir tli' embracing vines 
And birds liad drawn their valentines. 
The jealous trout that low did he, 
Rose at a vveil-disserabled flie. 
There stood my friend, with patient skill, 
Attending of his trembling quill." 



Sir H. "Wotton. 




IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is 
induced to run away from his family, 
and betake himself to a seafaring life, 
j from reading the history of Robinson 
Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like 
manner, many of those worthy gen- 
tlemen who are given to haunt the 
sides of pastoral streams with angle- 
rods in hand, may trace the orio-in of 
their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak 
Walton. I recollect studying his " Complete Angler'' several 
years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and 
moreo\er that we were all completely l)itten with the angling 
mania. It was earl v in tlie year; but as soon as the weather 
was auspicious, and that the s})riiig began to melt into tlie 
verue of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the 



436 TIl^ SKETCH BOOK. 

country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading 
books of chivalry. 

One of our party liad equalled the Don in the fulness of 
his equipments: being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. 
He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a 
hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a 
basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing- 
net, and a score of other inconveniences, only to be found in 
the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he 
was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among the 
country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the 
steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the 
Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the 
execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic 
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book of 
a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down 
rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees 
threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds 
hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with 
diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along 
a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with mur- 
murs ; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth into 
open day with the most placid, demure face imaginable ; as I 
have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her 
home with upnjar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, 
swimming and courtseying, and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothlv would this vagrant brook glide, at such times. 



THE ANGLEK. 



437 




tlirougli some bosom of green meadow-land among tlie moun- 
tains: wliere tlie quiet was only interrupted by tlie occasional 
tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among tlie clover, or the 
sound of a woodcutter's axe from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of s])ort 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled 



438 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

above half an hour before I had coinpletelj "satisfied tlie 
sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Wal- 
ton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man 
must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of tlie fish ; 
tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; 
until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day 
under the trees, reading old Izaak; satisfied that it v^as his 
fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had 
bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My compan- 
ions, however, were more persevering in their delusion. I have 
them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border 
of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely 
fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with 
hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt ; 
the kingfisher watching them suspiciously from his dry tree 
that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the 
hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the 
stone or log on which he is sunning himself; and the panic- 
struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spread- 
ing an alarm tliroughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping 
about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, 
in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country 
urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch 
of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! 
I believe, a crooked })in for a hook, baited with a vile earth- 
worm — and in half an liour caught more fish than we had 
nibbles throughout the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect the '' good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry" repast which we made under a beech-tree, just by a 
spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; 



THE ANGLER. 



489 




U1-1V f- 



and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak 
Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and 
bnilt castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All 
this may appear like mere egotism , yet I cannot refrain from 
uttering these recollections, which are passing like a strain of 
music over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable 
scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- 
tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and 
tlirows itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group 
seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of 



440 '^^^^ SKETCH BOOK. 

a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an 
old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very 
carefully patched, betokening poverty honestly come by and 
decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former 
storms, but present fair weather; its fnrrows had been worn 
into an habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, 
and he had altogether the good-humored air of a constitutional 
philosopher who was disposed to take the world as it went. 
One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking 
look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way 
to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest 
night. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a 
lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The 
old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which he 
had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were 
seasonable for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his 
companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I 
have a kind feeling towards all "brothers of the angle," ever 
since I read Izaak AValton. They are men, he affirms, of a 
"mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit;" and my esteem for them 
has been increased since I met with an old " Tretyse of fishing 
with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of 
their inoffensive fraternity. "Take good hede," sayeth this 
honest little tretyse, " that in going about yonr disportes ye 
open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall 
not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the 
encreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally for 
your solace, and to cause tlie helth of your body and specyally 
of your soule."* 

* From this same treatise, it would appear tliat angling is a more industrious 
and devout employment than it is generally considered. — " For wlien ye purpose to 



THE anglp:k. 44X 

I tliouglit that I could perceive in the veteran angler before 
me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a 
cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards 
him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he 
stumped from one part of the brook to another; waving his 
rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or 
catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he 
would throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skim- 
ming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into 
one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging 
bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean 
while he was giving instructions to his two disciples; showing 
them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix 
their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The 
scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator 
to his scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind 
which Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the 
great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, 
and just where the inferior AVelsh hills begin to swell up from 
among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that re- 
corded in his work, was mild and sunshiny, with now and then 
a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with 
diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so 
much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions 
in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day ' 
wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his 

<;■() on your disportes in tishyng-e yo will not des^'re greatlye man}- persons with 
you, wliicli might let you of your game And that ye may serve God devoutly in 
sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye sliall eschew 
and also avoyde many vices, as ydelues, which is principall cause lo induce man to 
many other vices, as it is right well known. " 

r.4 



442 '^iii^ SKETCH BOOK. 

talk. He was very (3ommnnicative, having all tlie easy gar- 
rulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by 
having an opportunity of disj^laying his piscatory lore ; for who 
does not like now and then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had })assed 
some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the 
indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many 
ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg 
was carried away by a cannon-ball, at the battle of Camper- 
down. This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had 
ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with 
some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of 
nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village, 
where he lived quietly and independently ; and devoted the 
remainder of his life to the "noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, 
appearing to look only on the good side of things : and, above 
all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had 
been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty 
and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and 
not to curse the country. The lad that was receiving his in- 
structions, I learned, was the son and heir apparent of a i'at old 
widow who kept the village irm, and of course a youth of some 
expectation, and mueli courted by the idle gentlemanlike ])er- 



THE ANGLER. 



448 




sonages of tlie place. In taking" liim under his care, therefore, 
the old man had })robably an eye to a privileged corner in 
the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of 
expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we coidd forget, 
which anglers are apt to do, tlie cruelties and tortures inflicted 
on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of 



444 'J''^^^ SKETCH ]'.(•( iK. 

spirit, and a j)iiiv serenity of mind. As the Eno-lish are me. 
thodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of 
sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and 
system. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the 
mild and highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every 
roughness has been softened away from the landscape. It is 
delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, 
like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful coun- 
try ; leading one through a diversity of small home scenery ; 
sometimes winding through ornamented grounds ; sometimes 
brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green 
is mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing 
in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of 
nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring 
on pleasant fits of musing ; which are now and then agreeably 
interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the 
peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the 
still water, and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. 
"When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, " and in- 
crease confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of 
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding 
stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and 
those very many other little living creatures that are not only 
created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the 
God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those 
ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent 
and happy spirit : 



TIIK AN(;LEK 



445 




■ Let rae live liarmlessly, and near the brink 
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 

AVhcre I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 
With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 

And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace , 

And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

I/et them that will, these pastimes still pursue 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their lill ; 

So I tlie fields and meadows green may view. 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will. 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hvacinth and vcllow ilattbdil."* 



* J. l)avors. 



44fi TIIK SKICTCII BOOK. 

Oil parting with tlie (ild angler I inquired after liis place of 
abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the vil- 
lage a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him 
out. I found him living in a small cottage, containing only 
one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrange- 
ment. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a 
little back from the road, with a small garden in front, stocked 
with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a few flowers. The 
whole front of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. 
On the top was a ship for a weather-cock. The interior was 
fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and 
convenience having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man- 
of-war. A hannnock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the 
daytime, was laslied up so as to take but little room. From 
the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own 
workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea- 
chest, formed the principal movables. About the wall were 
stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier s Ghost, All in 
the Downs, and Tom Bowline, intermingled with pictures of 
sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a dis- 
tinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with sea- 
shells ; over which hung a, quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts 
of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements for 
angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the 
room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work 
on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd 
volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of 
songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat witli one eye, and 
a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, 
in the course of one of his voyages ; and which uttered a 



THE ANGLEE. 447 

variety of sea-plirases with the hoarse brattling tone of a 
veteran boatswain. The establisliment reminded me of that 
of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, 
every thing being "stowed away"' with the regnlarity of a ship 
of war ; and he informed me tliat lie '' scoured the deck every 
morning, and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his 
pip>3 in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly 
on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolu- 
tions in an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He 
had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport 
with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a cam- 
paign ; being particularly animated in relating the manner in 
which he liad taken a large trout, which had completely tasked 
all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to 
mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerfiil and contented old age ; 
and to beliold a })Oor fellow, like this, after being ternpest-tost 
through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the 
evening of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung from 
within himself, and was independent of external circumstances ; 
for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most 
precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the 
troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and 
equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a 
universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ; 
where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, 
astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and ship- 
wrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen 
s})ortsmen of the neighboi-hood ; had taught several of them 



448 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the art of angling ; and was a privileged visitor to their kitch- 
ens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, 
being principally passed about the neighboring streams, when 
the weather and season were favorable ; and at other times he 
employed himself at home, preparing his fishing-tackle for the 
next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his 
patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he 
generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his 
particular request that when he died he should be buried in a 
green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and 
which he had marked ont ever since he was a boy, and had 
thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in danger of 
being food for the fishes — it was the spot wliere his father and 
mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but 
I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy 
"brother of the angle;" who has made me more than ever in 
love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in 
the jjractice of his art : and I will conclude this rambling sketch 
in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing 
of St. Peter's master upon my reader, " and upon all that are 
true lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in his providence ; and be 
quiet" and go a angling." 




THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



FOUND AMONG THP: PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDKICH 
KNICKERBOCKER. 

'"A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky." 

Castt,e of Indolexoe. 

N the bosom of one of those spacious 
coves wliich indent the eastern shore 
of the Hudson, at that broad expansion 
of the river denominated l^y tlie ancient 
Dutch navigators the Tap})an Zee, and wliere they always pru- 
dently shortened sail, and iniplorc(l the ])rotection of St. 
Nichohis when they crossed, there lies a smiiU ninrket-tov/n oi" 




450 tup: sketch book. 

rural port, whicli hy some is called Greensburgh, but which is 
more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry 
Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by 
the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveter- 
ate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village 
tavern on market-days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for 
the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise 
and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two 
miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high 
hills, which is one of the rpiietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to 
lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or 
tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the ouly sound that ever 
breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- 
shooting was in a gi'ove of tall walnut-trees that shades one 
side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when 
all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of 
my own gun, as it broke the Sabl)ath stillness around, and was 
prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I 
should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world 
and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a 
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little 
valley. 

From the listless repose of the })lace, and the peculiar charac- 
ter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original 
Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by 
the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the 
Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. 
A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and 
to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the |)]ace was 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 451 

Ijewitched by a liigli German doctor, during the early days of 
the settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country 
was discovered by Master Henclrick Hudson. Certain it is, the 
place still continues under the sway of some witching power, 
that holds a spell o\-er the minds of tlie good people, causing 
them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all 
kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; 
and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in 
the air. The whole neighborhood abounds Avith local tales, 
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions : stars shoot and me- 
teors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part 
of the country, and the nightmare, with her -whole idne fold, 
seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of 
the air. is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a 
head. It is said l)y some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, 
whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some 
nameless battle during the revolutionary war; and who is ever 
and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom 
of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not 
confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to tlie vicinity of a church at no great dis- 
tance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those 
parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the 
floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of 
the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost 
rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head: 
and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes 
alono- the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his beinu" 



452 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before 
daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the coun- 
try firesides, bv the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensit}^ I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the vallej^, 
but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there 
for a time. However wide awake they may have been before 
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little while, 
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to 
grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is 
in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, 
manners, and customs, remain fixed ; while the great torrent of 
migration and improvement, which is making such incessant 
changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 
unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water 
which border a rapid stream ; where we may see the straw and 
bubble riding quietlj^ at anchor, or slowly revolving in their 
mimic harbor, undisturljed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not 
still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its 
sheltered bosom. 

In this liy-place of nature, there al)ode, in a remote })eriod of 
American history, that is to say, some thirtv years since, a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane: who sojourned, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



453 







-?^r^«s— 



1^ 



or, as lie expressed it, '' tarried,'' in Sleepy Hollow, for the })iir- 
pose of" instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a 
native of Connecticut : a State which supplies the Union with 
pioneers for the mind as Avell as for the forest, and sends forth 
yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his 
person. He was tall, hut exceedinolv lank, with narrow shoul- 



454 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



ders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his 
sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole 
frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and 
flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long 
snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, jjerched upon 
his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him 
striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his 
clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mis- 
taken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, 
or some scarecrow eloped from a corn-field. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rude- 
ly constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and partly 
patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingenious- 
Iv secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle 
of the door, and stakes set against the window-shutters : so that, 
though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find 
some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably 
borrowed bv the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery 
of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook 
running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one 
end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, 
conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy sum- 
mer's day. like the hum of a bee-hive; interrupted now and 
then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of 
menace or command; or. peradventure, by the appalling sound 
of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery 
path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, 
and ever bore in mind the golden maxim. " Spare the rod and 
spoil the child." Ichabod Cranes scholars certainly were not 
s] )oiled. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 455 

I would not have it imagined, however, that lie was one 
of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart 
of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with 
discrimination rather than severity: taking the l)urden off the 
backs of the weak, and laving it on those of the strong. Your 
mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the 
rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice 
were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, 
tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, wlio sulked 
and swelled, and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. 
All this he called "doing his duty by their jmrents;'' and he 
never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the as- 
surance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that '' he would 
remember it, and thank him for it the longest day he had to 
live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and jDlaymate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons 
would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to 
have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for 
the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to 
keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from 
his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient 
to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, 
though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to 
help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom 
in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, 
whose children he instructed. With these he lived successive- 
ly a week at a time; thus going the rounds of the neighbor- 
hood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handker- 
chief 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 



456 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the cost of schooling 
a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. 
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of 
their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took 
the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and cut 
wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant 
dignity and absolute sway with Avhich he lorded it in his little 
empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and in- 
gratiating. He found fivor in the eyes of the mothers, by 
petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the 
lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, 
he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with 
his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings 
by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter 
of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in 
front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; 
where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm 
from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above 
all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers 
still to be heard in that church, and which may even be lieard 
half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on 
a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately de- 
scended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers 
little make-shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly 
denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue 
got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who under- 
stood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully 
easy life of it. 



THE LEGE^'D oE SLEEI'Y lloLEoW. .1.57 

The sclioolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered 
a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste 
and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
uiferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, tliere- 
fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-tnbh^ of n, farm- 
house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or 
sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 
smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among 
them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays ! gather- 
ing grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the sur- 
rounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs 
on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, 
along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more 
bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his 
superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travellin«- 
gazette, carrying thc^ whole budget of local gossip from house 
to house; so that his appearance was always greeted with satis- 
faction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man 
of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, 
and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's history of New 
England Witchcraft, in which, Iw the way, he most firmlv and 
[)otently believed. 

He was, in flict, an odd luixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his 
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both 
had lieen increased by his residence in this spellbound region. 
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 
It was oft(Mi his delio-ht, after his school was dismissed in tlie 



458 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering 
the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there 
con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk 
of the evening made the printed j)age a mere mist before his 
eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and 
awful woodland, to the farm-house where he happened to be 
quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, flut- 
tered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will* 
from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that har- 
binger of storm; the dreary hooting of the. screech-owl, or the 
sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their 
roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the 
darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon 
brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a 
huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his l)lundering flight 
against him, tlie poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, 
with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His 
only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or 
drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; — and the good 
people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an even- 
ing, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in 
linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, 
or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning 
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and 
goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted 



* The whip-poor-will is a liird wiiicli is only heard at uioht. It rccei\-es it.^ 
iiaiae tVoui its note, wliiuli is thought to resemble those words. 



titp: legend of sleei'y hollow. 459 

bridges, and liaunted houses, and particularly of the headless 
horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous 
sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier 
times of Connecticut ; and would frighten theuL wofully with 
speculations upon comets and shooting stars ; and with the 
alarming hict that the world did absolutely turn round, and that 
they were half the time topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all tliis, while snugly cuddling 
in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy 
glow from the crackling wood lire, and where, of course, no 
spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased by the 
terrors of his subsecjuent walk homewards. What fearful 
shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly 
glare of a snowy night ! — With what wistful look did he eye 
every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields 
from some distant window ! — Plow often was he appalled bv 
some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, 
beset his very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath 
his feet ; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should 
behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! — and 
how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing 
l)last, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the 
Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms 
of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen 
many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by 
Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet day- 
light put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a 



460 



THE skp:t(:ii book. 







pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all bis works, if 
his path had not been crossed bv a being that causes more 
perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole 
race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in 
each weelc, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 



THE l.KUEXl) OF SEKKI'V lloLLuW. j^^^ 

Van Tas^sel, the daughter and only cliild of a sul)stantial Dutcli 
farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; j)lum|) as a 
partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely lor her 
beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a 
coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a 
mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set 
oft' her eharms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, 
which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saa r- 
dam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and withal a 
provokingly short 23etticoat, to display the prettiest foot and 
ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex ; 
and it is not to be wondered at, that so tem|)ting a morsel soon 
found favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited 
her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a 
perfect pic;ture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. 
He seldom, it is true, sent ^nther his eyes or his thoughts bevond 
the boundaries of his own farm ; l)ut within those every thing- 
was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with 
his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the 
hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His 
stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one 
of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutcli 
farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its 
broad branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring 
of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a 
barrel ; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a 
neighboring brook, that loubbled along among alders and dwarf 
willows. Hard by the farm-house was a vast barn, that might 
have served for a church ; every window and crevice of which 



462 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 





seemed bursting fortli witli the treasures of the farm ; the 
flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night ; 
swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and 
rows of |)igeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching 
the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried 
in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing 
about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. 
Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- 
dance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops 
of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of 



TlIK LEGEND OF SLEEPY llOLLoW. ^.(jg 

snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole 
fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
the flxrmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill- 
tempered housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. 
Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of 
a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his bur- 
nished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then 
generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children 
to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring 
mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running 
about with a pudding in his belly, and an apj)le in his mouth ; 
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and 
tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in 
their own gravy ; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like 
snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. 
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, 
and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily 
trussed u}), with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, 
a necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer 
himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted 
claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit 
disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards 
l:)urthened Avith ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tene- 
ment of A^an Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who 
was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with 



464 



TIIE SKETCH r>(»<)K. 



the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the 
money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle 
palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized 
his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a 
whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded 
with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling 
beneath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with 
a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the 
Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, with 
high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed 
down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low projecting eaves 
forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in 
bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various 
utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring 
river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use ; and 
a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, 
showed the various uses to wliich this important porch might 
be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered 
the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion and the place 
of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged 
on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge 
bag of wool ready to be s})un ; in another a quantity of linsey- 
woolsey just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of 
dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, 
mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave 
him a ])eep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, 
and dark mahogany tables, shone like mdrrors ; and irons, with 
their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert 
of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 465 

mantel-piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs were sus- 
jjended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre 
of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, 
displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended 
china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such like easily-conquered adversaries, to contend 
with ; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron 
and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the 
lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily 
as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; 
and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a 
country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, 
which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments ; 
and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real 
flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every 
portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon 
each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against 
any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to 
the Dutch al)breviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rang with his feats of strength and 
hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with 
short curly black hair, and a bluff, but nc^t unpleasant counte- 



4(36 TIIK SKETCH BOOK. 

nance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his 
Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received 
the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was universally 
known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in 
horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. 
He was foremost at all races and cock-fights : and, wdth the 
ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was 
the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and 
giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gain- 
say or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a 
frolic ; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; 
and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash 
of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon 
companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head 
of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud 
or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was 
distinguished by a fur caj), surmounted with a flaunting fox's 
tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this 
well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad 
of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes 
his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm-houses 
at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
sacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would 
listen for a moment till the huny-scurry had clattered by, 
and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang !" 
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, ad- 
miration, and good-will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic 
brawl, occuri'ed in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and 
warranted Brom Bones w^as at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the bloom- 
ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries; and 



THE ].EGENT) oF SLEEPY IIOLI.OW. 4^7 

though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle 
caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that 
she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, 
his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt 
no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when 
his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday 
night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is 
termed, "sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in 
despair, and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had 
to contend ; and, considering all things, a stouter man than he 
would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man 
would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of 
pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and 
spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough; though he 
bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the 
slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! he was 
as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have 
been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating 
manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that he had any 
thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of 
parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of 
lovers. Bait Yan Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved 
his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable 
man and an excellent father, let her have her way in every 
thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend 
to her housekeeping and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely 



4C.S 



THE f>KETCH BOOK. 













'Is 



:1 'h'.-^\:\ 










observed, ducks and geese are foolish tilings, and must be 
looked after, but girls can take care of tliemselves. Thus, while 
the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning- 
wheel at one end of the })iazza, honest Bait would sit smoking 
his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of 
a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, 



THE LEGEND oK SLEEPY IIoJ.LoW. ^qlj 

was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the 
barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would cany on his suit with 
the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, 
or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the 
lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or 
door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may 
be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph 
of skill to gain tlie former, but a still greater proof of general- 
ship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must 
battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins 
a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown ; 
but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, 
is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the 
redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane 
made his advances, the interests of the former evidently de- 
clined ; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on 
Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him 
and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have 
settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mode 
of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant 
of yore — by single combat ; but Icliabod was too conscious of 
the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against 
him : he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would "double 
the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school- 
house ;" and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. 
There was something extremely }):-ovoking in this obstinately 



47() THE SKETCH BOOK. 

pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon 
the funds of rustic waggery in bis disposition, and to play off 
boorisb practical jokes upon bis rival. Icbabod became tbe 
object of wliimsical persecution to Bones, and bis gang of rougb 
riders. Tbey barried bis bitberto peaceful domains ; smoked 
out bis singing-scbool, by stopping u-p tbe cbimney; broke into 
tbe scbool-bouse at nigbt, in spite of its formidable fastenings of 
witli and window-stakes, and turned every tbing topsy-turvy : 
so tbat tbe poor scboolmaster began to tbink all tbe witcbes in 
tbe country beld tbeir meetings tbere. But wbat was still more 
annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning bim into 
ridicule in presence of bis mistress, and bad a scoundrel dog 
wbicb be taugbt to wbine in tbe most ludicrous manner, 
and introduced as a rival of Icbabod's to instruct ber in 
psalmody. 

In tbis way matters went on for some time, witbout producing 
any material effect on tbe relative situation of tbe contending 
powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Icbabod, in pensive 
mood, sat entbroned on tbe lofty stool wbence be usually 
watcbed all tbe concerns of bis little literary realm. In bis 
band be swayed a ferule, tbat sceptre of despotic power ; tbe 
bircb of justice reposed on tbree nails, bebind tbe tbrone, a 
constant terror to evil-doers ; wbile on tbe desk before bim 
migbt be seen sundry contraband articles and probibited 
weapons, detected upon tbe persons of idle urcbins ; such as 
balf-muncbed apples, popguns, wbirligigs, fly-cages, and wbole 
legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently tbere 
bad been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for bis 
scbolars were all busily intent upon tbeir l:)Ooks, or slyly wbis- 
pering bebind tbem with one eye kept upon the master ; and a 
kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. 



Till-: i,i.:(;p:m) of sleepy uoeeow. 



471 



l^lIlP .-.^^.^'J 



'' ^7,\. 







It was suddenly interrupted Ijy the appearance of a negro, in 
tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a 
liat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a 
ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by 
way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door, with 
an invitation to Ichabod to attend a meny-making or " quilting 
frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and 
having delivered his message with that air of importance, and 
effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to dis})lay on petty 
embassies of the kind, he daslicd over the Ijrook, and was seen 
scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and 
hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late cpiiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, with- 



472 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



out Stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over 
half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart 
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, 
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without 
being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, 
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose 
an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at 
their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed 
only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of 
broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That 
he might make liis appearance before his mistress in the true 
style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the 
name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued 
forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some 
account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. 
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that 
had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was 
gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; 
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; 
one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral; but 
the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must 
have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the 
name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite 
steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a 
furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own 
spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 473 

there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young 
filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the 
pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like 
a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms 
was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool 
hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of 
forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat 
fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the aj^pear- 
ance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate 
of Hans Van Eipper, and it was altogether such an apparition 
as is seldom to l)e met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day ; the sky was clear 
and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which 
we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests 
had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of 
the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant 
dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild 
ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark 
of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and 
hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals 
from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the 
fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, 
from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very 
profusion and variety around them. There was the honest 
cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its 
loud, querulous note ; and the twittering blackbirds flying in 
sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his 



474 'flll'^ SKETCH HOOK. 

crimson crest, liis broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; 
and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, 
and its little montero cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that 
noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under- 
clothes — screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and 
bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster 
of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight 
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
tlie trees ; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden 
ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the 
promise of cakes and hasty -pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins 
lying beneath them, turning up their fliir round bellies to the 
sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; 
and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing 
the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them soft anticipa- 
tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and 
garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled 
hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
"sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes 
of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad 
disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee 
lay motionless and glassy, excepting that liere and there a 
gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the 
distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, 



UK ij':(ii';.\i) (ji- sI,l•:l■:l>^ iioi.i.ow 



:iO 




without a breath of air t(^ move them, llie horizon was of a 
fine golden tint, clianging gradually into a pure apple green, 
and from that into the deep blue of tlie mid-heaven. A slanting- 
ray lingered on the woody crests of the })reci[)ices that overhung 
some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-gi-ay 
and })urple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the 
distance, dropping sh)wly down with the tide, her sail hanging 



476 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

uselessly against the mast; and as the retiection of the sky 
gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was 
suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride 
and flower of the adjacent country;— old farmers, a spare, 
leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue 
stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles ; their 
brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted 
shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, 
and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses, 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw 
hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of 
city innovation ; the sons, in short square-skirted coats, with 
rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally 
queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could 
procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, through- 
out the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the 
hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come 
to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like 
himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but 
himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring 
vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the 
rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well- 
broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I ])ause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 
state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion ; — not those of the bevy 
of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; 
but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in 



THE LECiEND OF SLEEPY IlOLLOW. 477 

the sumptuous time of autumn. Sucli heaped-up platters of 
cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only 
to experienced Dutcb housewives ! There was the doughty 
dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling 
kruller; sweet-cakes and short-cakes, ginger-cakes and honey- 
cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were 
apple-pies and peach-pies and pumpkin-pies ; besides slices of 
ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of pre- 
served plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to 
mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with 
bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledj', j^retty 
much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst— Heaven bless 
the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as 
it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, 
Ichabod Crane was not in so gi^eat a hurry as his historian, but 
did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in 
proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and whose 
spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He 
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, 
and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be 
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splen- 
dor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the 
old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itiner- 
ant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him 
comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with 
a face dilated with content and good-humor, round and jolly as 
the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but 



478 '^'^^^^ SKETCH B<K)K. 

expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the 
shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to and 
help themselves."' 

And now the sound of tiie nnisic from the common room, 
or hall, summoned to the dance. Tlie musician was an old 
grayheaded negro, who liad been the itinerant orchestra of the 
neio-hborhood for more than half a centurv- His instrument 
was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the 
time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every 
movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing 
almost to the ground, and stamping with liis foot whenever a 
fresb couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his 
vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and 
to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering 
about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, 
that blessed })atron of the dance, was figuring before you in 
person. He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who having 
gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighbor- 
hood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their 
white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear 
to ear. How could the flogger of urchins l)e otherwise than 
animated and joyous? the lady of liis heart was his partner in 
the dance, and smiling graciously in re})ly to all his amorous 
oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and 
jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking 
at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and draw- 
ing out long stories about the war. 



TiiK ]-I':(;kxi) of slkkpy uou.ow. 479 

This ueigliborhood, at the time of which I am speakino-, was 
one of tliose liiglily-favorecl places which abound with chronicle 
and great men. The British and American line had run near 
it during the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of maraud- 
ing, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of 
border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable 
eacli story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming- 
fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make 
liimself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the stor}^ of Doftue Martling, a large blue-bearded 
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun 
burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman 
who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly 
mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, Ijeing an ex- 
cellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small 
sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, 
and glance off at the hilt : in proof of which, he was ready at 
any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little l)ent. There 
w^ere several more that had been equally great in the field, not 
one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable 
hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

Bnt all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
tions that succeeded. The neighborliood is rich in legendary 
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best 
in these sheltered long-settled retreats ; but are trampled under 
foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most 
of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for 
ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time 
to finish their first nap, and tui-n themselves in their graves, 
before their sur\-i\iiiu- friends lia\e travelled awav from the 



480 'i'UE SKETCH BOOK. 

neighborliood ; so that when they turn out at niglit to walk 
their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This 
is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except 
in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity 
of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that 
blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere 
of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the 
Sleepy Hollow j^eople were j^resent at Van Tassel's, and, as 
usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. 
Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourn- 
ing cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree 
where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which 
stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of 
the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a 
storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part 
of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of 
Sleepv Hollow, tlie headless horseman, who had been heard 
several times of late, jiatrolling the country; and, it was said, 
tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church- 
yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
luive made it a hivorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands 
on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly 
forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of 
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may 
be caught at the blue liills of the Hudson. To look upon its 



"IIH J.KGEND OF ST.KKI'V llol.I.oW 



481 




grass-grown yarrl, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, 
one would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peaee. On one side of the churcli extends a wide woody dell, 
along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and 
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black })art of the stream, 
not fiir from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden 
bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were 
thickly shaded by overhanging trees, wliicli cast a gloom 
about it, even in the daytime ; but occasioned a fearful dark- 
ness at night. This was one of tlie favorite liaunts of the 
headless horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently 
encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most hereti- 
cal disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning 
from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get 
up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, 
over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge: when the 



_j.,s'2 'VUK skf:t(']i book. 

lioi'semau suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwcr 
into tlie brook, and sj)rang awav over tlie tree-tops with a clap 
of thunder. 

This story was iniinediatelv niatched l)y a thrice marvellous 
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping 
Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, lie had 
been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered 
to race with him for a bowl of punch, and shouki have w^on it 
too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow^, but, just as 
they came to tlie church-bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished 
in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men 
talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners ordy now and 
then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank 
deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind witli 
lai'ge extracts from his invaluable author. Cotton Mather, and 
added many marvellous events that had taken place in his 
native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights wdii(;h he had 
seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old firmers 
gathered together their families in their wagons, and were 
heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over 
the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions 
behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted lauo-hter, 
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually 
died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent 
and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the 
custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, 
fullv convinced that he was now on tlie hisrh road to success. 



Till-: LK(tEXI) of SI.KKI'V IK)]. low 



483 



What passed at tliis interview I will not pretend to say, for 
in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must 
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very 
great interval, with an air (piite desolate and cho})-fallen. — Oh 
these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been play- 
ing off any of her cocpiettisli tricks ? — Was her encouragement 
of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest 
of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — Let it suffice to 
sa}^, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been 
sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without 
looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, 
on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the 
stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, ronsed his 
steed most uncoiirteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn 
and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted and crest-fallen, pursned his travel homewards, along 
the sides of the lofcv hills which i-ise above Tarry Town, and 
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The 
hour was as dismal as himself Far below him, the Tappan 
Zee spread its dusl-:y and indistinct waste of waters, with here 
and there the tall mast of a sloo|), riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even 
hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore 
of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give 
an idea of his distance from this faithful com})anion of man. 
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acciden- 
tally awakened, would sound far, fir off, from some farm-house 
away among '4he hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his 
car. No siaiis of life occurred near him, but occasionally the 



484 



THE SKKTCll BOOK. 



melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang 
of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncom- 
fortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the 
afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The 
night grew darker and darker : the stars seemed to sink deeper 
in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his 
sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, 
moreover, approaching the very place where many of the 
scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the 
road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant 
above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a 
kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large 
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost 
to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected 
with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had 
been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by 
the name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded 
it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of 
sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partl}^ 
from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told 
concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached tliis fearful tree, he began to whistle: 
he thought his whistle was answered — it was but a blast 
sweeping sharj)ly through the dry lu'anches. As he approached 
a little nearer, he thoiight he saw something white, hanging in 
the midst of the tree — he paused and ceased whistling ; but 
on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where 
the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood 
laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered 
and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the I'ubbina: 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEl'Y llOJ.LoW. 



485 



()f one liuge bough, upon another, as tliey were swayed about 
by the breeze. He passed the tree iu safety, l:)ut new perils 
lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and tliiekly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rou^-h 
logs, laid side l)y side, served for a bridge OA'er this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a 
group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape- 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge 
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the 
unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those 
chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who 
surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted 
stream, and fearful are tlie feelings of the schoolboy who has 
to pass it alone after dark. 

Ashe approached the stream his heart began to thump; he 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half 
a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the perverse 
old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against 
the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, 
jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the 
contrary foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, 
but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into 
a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now 
bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old 
Gunpowder, who dashed forward, smififling and snorting, but 
came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had 
nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this 
moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the 



4XH' TIJl^^ SKETCH BOOK. 

sensitive ear of Icliabocl. In the dark shadow of the grove, on 
the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, 
black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in 
the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the 
traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with 
terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too 
late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or 
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the 
wind ? SnmuKMiing up, tlierefore, a show of courage, lie 
demanded in stammering accents — '" Who are you ?"' He 
received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more 
agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he 
cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting 
his eyes, broke fortli witli involuntary fervor into a psalm-tune. 
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, 
and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle 
of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the 
form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. 
He appeared to l^e a horseman of large dimensions, and 
mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no 
offer of molestat'on or sociability, but kept aloof on one side 
of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, 
who had now got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnisrht com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones 
with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 
horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a 
walk, thinking to lag behind — tlie other did the same. His 
heart Ijegan to sink witliin him: he endeavored to resume his 



TJIE LEGEND UE SLEEPY Ji()]>l.()\V 



4N7 




psalm-tune, but liis parched tongue clove to the roof of his 
mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something 
in tlie moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 
ion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought 
the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, 
gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror- 
struck on perceiving that he was headless ! — but his horror 
was still more increased, on observing that the head, which 
should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on 
the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to desperation ; he 



488 



'J'lfK SKKTCH iiooK. 



rained a sliower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping 
by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — iDut 
the spectre started full jump with him. Awaj then they 
dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks 
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered 
in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his 
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a 
sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 
where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed 
church. 

As yet, the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got 
half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave 
way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by 
the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and 
had just time to save himself by clasping old GunjDOwder round 
the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it 
trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror 
of Hans Yan Eipper's wrath passed across his mind — for it was 
his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the 
goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he 
was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slip- 
ping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted 
on the hish ridoe of his horse's backbone, with a violence that 
he verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 



^ 



THE LEGEND OF SLEKPV IKjLLOW. 



489 




that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection 
of a silver star in the bosom of the brook tokl him that he was 
not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring 
under the trees beyond. He recollected the pkice where Brom 
Bones's ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If I cun but 
reach that bridore."' thousht Icliabod. "'T am safe." Just then 



490 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



he heard the black steed })aiitiiig and blowing close behind 
him ; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon 
the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he 
gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind, 
to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash 
of lire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in 
his stirrujjs, and in the ver}^ act of hurling his head at him_ 
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. 
It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he was 
tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black 
steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping 
the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his 
appearance at breakfast — dinnerdiour came, but no Ichabod. 
The bojs assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly 
about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans 
Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate 
of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An incjuiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. 
In one part of the road leading to the church was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply 
dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced 
to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of 
the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the 
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 49 ■[ 

effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks 
for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an okl pair 
of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm- 
tunes, full of dogs' ears; and a broken pitch pipe. As to the 
books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the 
community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a 
New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune- 
telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled 
and blotted, in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of 
verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the 
flames by Hans Van Ripper; who from tliat time forward 
determined to send his children no more to school ; observ- 
ing, that he never knew any good come of this same reading 
and writing. "Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and 
he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he 
must have had about his person at the time of his disappear- 
ance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips 
were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the 
spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories 
of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were 
called to mind ; and when tliey had diligently considered them 
all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present 
case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that 
Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As 
he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his 
head any more about him. The school was removed to a dif- 
ferent quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in 
his stead. 



■il»2 



THE SKETCH j;(M)I 



It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York 
on a visit several years after, and from whom this account 
of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the 
intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had 
left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and 
Hans Yan Eipper, and partly in mortification at having been 
suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his 
quarters to a distant part of the country ; had kept school 
and studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, 
turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, 
and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. 
Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of 
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at 
the mention of the pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that 
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 
these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited 
away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often 
told HCbout the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. 
The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious 
awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered 
of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of 
the mill-pond. The school-house, being deserted, soo nfell to 
decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the un- 
fortunate pedagogue ; and the ploughboy, loitering homeward 
of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a dis- 
tance, chanting a melancholy psalm-tune among the tranquil 
solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 




The preceding- Tale is given almost in the precise words in which I 
heard it related, at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of Man- 
hattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious 
burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow 
in pejipcr-and-salt clothes, M'ith a sadly humorous face ; and one whom 
I strongly suspected of being poor, — he made such efforts to be enter- 
taining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and 
approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had 
been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall 
dry-looking old g'entleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a 
grave and rather severe face throughout : now and then foldino' his arms 
inclining his head, and looking down upon the tioor, as if turnino- a 
doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never 
laugh but upon good grounds — when they have reason and the law on 
their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided 
and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, 
and, sticking the other akimlio, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly 
sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the 
moral of the story, and what it went to prove ? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as 



494 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his in- 
quirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly 
to the table, observed, that the storj'' was intended most logically to 
"prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to 
have a rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch 
heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state/' 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this 
explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism ; 
while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed liim with something 
of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very 
well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there 
were one or two points on which he had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I don't 

believe one-half of it mvself " 

D. K. 




"Go, little booke, God send thee good passage. 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
"Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all.'' 

Chaucer's Belh Dame sans Mtrcie. 

IN concluding a second vohime of the Sketch Book, the Author 
cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with 
which his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition 
that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. 
Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he 
has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it 
is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two arti- 
cles, and that these individual excej^tions, taken in the aggre- 
gate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of his 
work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that what 
one has particularly censured another has as particularly 
praised ; and thus, the encomiums being set off against the ob- 
jections, he finds Ins work, upon the whole, commended far 
beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a I'isk of forfeiting mucli of this 
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally 
bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice 
is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go 

* Closina; the .second volume of the London edition. 



49(; 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



astray. He can only say, in liis vindication, that he faithfully 
determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume 
by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought 
to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
advised him to avoid the ludicrous; another to shun the 
pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at descrip- 
tion, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth 
declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, 
and was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was 
grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit 
of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn 
closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside 
to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in 
fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embar- 
rassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on 
as he had begun; that his work being miscellaneous, and 
written for different humors, it could not be expected that any 
one would be pleased with the whole ; but that if it should 
contain something to suit each reader, his end would be com- 
pletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with 
an equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant horror of 
a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomi- 
nation ; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and 
wildfowl ; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks 
with sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks, here and there 
dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its 
turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a 
dish go away from the table without being tasted and relished 
by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second 



L'EXVOY. ^Q^ 

volume in the same heterogeneous waj- with his first ; simply re- 
questing the reader, if he should find here and there somethino- 
to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for 
intelligent readers like himself; but entreating him, should he 
find any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles 
which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less 
refined taste. 

To be serious. — Tiie author is conscious of the numerous 
faults and imperfections of liis work ; and well aware how little 
he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. 
His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from 
his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strano-e 
land, and appearing before a public which he has been accus- 
tomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelino-s of 
awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their 
approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embar- 
rassing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and confi- 
dence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the 
kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, 
hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing; and thus 
he proceeds, half venturing, half slirinking, surprised at his 
own good fortune, and wonderiug'at his own temeritv. 



^^ 




NOTES CONCERNING AVESTMINSTER ABBEY- 



Toward the end of tlie sixth century, when Britaui, under the do- 
minion of the Saxons, was in a state of bavbarisni and idolatry, Pope 
Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths 
exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the 
race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the Gospel among 
these comely but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by 
learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent, and the most potent of the 
Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only 
daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation 
the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of re- 
ligious faith. He forthwith despatched xVugustine, a Pioman monk, 
with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Clanterbury, to efiect 
the conversion of the king, and to obtain through him a foothold in the 
island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open air; 
being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and magic. 
They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his 
wife; the conversion of the king of course produced the conversion of 
his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine Avere rewarded 
by his being made archbishop of Canterlniry, and being endowed with 
authority over all th(^ British cliurches. 



500 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert of Sebert, king of 
the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of 
which Melhtus, one of tlie Roman monks who had come over with 
Augustine, was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his rehgious zeal, founded a monastery by the river 
side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, 
in fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great 
preparati()ns were made for the consecration of the church, which was 
to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day, 
Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to per- 
form the ceremony. On approaching the edifice lie was met by a 
fisherman, who informed him that it was needless to proceed, as tlie 
ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisher- 
man went on to relate, that the night before, as he was in his boat on 
the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to 
consecrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle accordingly 
went into the church, which suddenly became illuminated. The cer- 
emony was performed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of 
heavenly music and clouds of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle 
came into the boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did 
so, and had a miraculous draught of fishes ; one of which he was com- 
manded to present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle 
had relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slov/ of belief, and required confirmation of 
the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wax 
candles, crosses, holy water ; oil sprinkled in various places, and various 
other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts, 
they were completely removed on the fisherman's producing the identical 
fish which he had been ordered by the apostle to pi'esent to him. To 
resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good 
bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been 
consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so he reverently abstained from 
proceeding further in the business. 



APPENDIX. 



501 



The foregoing tradition is said to bo the reason why King Edward 
tlic Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he 
meant to endow. lie pulled down the old church and built another in 
its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a magnificent 
shrine. 

The sacred edifice again nnderwent modifications, if not a reconstruc- 
tion, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present ap- 
pearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch turn- 
ing the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. 



RELICS OF EDWAKD THE CONFESSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1088, by one of the clioristers of 
the cathedral, wdio appears to have been the Paul I^ry of the sacred 
edifice, o-ivinw an account of his rumniao-iup- amono- the bones of Edward 
the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards 
of si.x hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden 
chain of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had 
officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, among 
his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that 
the body of King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, 
which was indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to 
his memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon 
a nearer inspection, nntil the worthy narrator, to gratify liis curiosity, 
mounted to the coffin by the ai'l of a ladder, and found it to be made 
of wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands 
of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the 
coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a hole 
appearing in the lid, probablv made, through acciilent, 1)y the workmen. 



502 Tlf^^ SKETCH BOOK. 

No one vontnrrd, liowfver, to meddle with the sacred depository of 
royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, tlie circumstance came to the 
knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the 
abbey in companv with two friends, of congenial tastes, who were de- 
sirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder, lie again mounted 
to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about 
six inches long and four inches broad, just in front of tlie left breast. 
Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from 
underneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed 
to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his in- 
quisitive friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 

" At tlie time," says he, " when T took the cross and chain out of 
the coffin, I drsiv the head to the hole and vieuied it, being very sound 
and firm, with the upper ami nether jaws whole and. full of teeth, and a 
list of gold above an inch brcjad, in the nature of a coronet, surroundino- 
the temples. There was also in the coffin, white linen and gold-colored 
flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh ; but the least stress put 
thereto showed it was well-nigh perished. There were all his bones, and 
much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than 
the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its 
coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him 
through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain 
back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him of his 
discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that 
the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other hands, he got a 
brother choi-ister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three 
hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These 
he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The kino- subse- 
quently had the old coffin enclosed in a new one of great streno-th : 
'•eachplaidc being two inches thick and cramped together with laro-e 
iron wedges, where it now remains (1088) as a testimony of his pious 



APPENDIX. 



503 



care, that no abuse miglit be offereil to the sacred aslies therein de- 
posited." 

As the history of tliis slirine is full of moral, I subjoin a description 
of it in modern times. '• Tlic solitary and forlorn shrine," savs a 
British writer, " now stands a more skeleton of what it was. A few 
faint traces of its sparkling- decorations inlaid on solid mortar catches 

the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor Onlv 

two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much 
broken, and covered with (hist. The mosaic is ]:)icked awav in every 
part within reach ; only the lozenges of about a foot scpiare and live 
circular pieces of the rich marble remain."' — Malcolm, Loud, redir. 



IXSCRIPTIOX OX A MOXUMEXT ALLUDED TO IX THE SKETCH. 

"Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess liis second 
wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, 
youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble fixmily ; lor all 
the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This r)uchess 
was a wise, witty, and learned ladv, which her many Bookes do well 
testify : she was a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was 
with her lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he 
came home, never parted from him in his solitary retirements." 



In the winter time, when the days arc short, the service in the after- 
noon is performed bv the light of tapers. 1'he effect is fine of the 
choir partially lighted uji, while the main body of the cathedral and the 
transepts are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses 
of the choristers gleam amidst the <leep brown of the open slats and 
canopies; the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from 



504 'J^li^ SKETCH BOOK. 

cohinins and screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom, catches 
lierc and there upon a sepulchral decoration, or monumental effigy. The 
swellino- notes of the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the 
old conventual part of the })ilc, by the boys of the choir, in their white 
dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey 
and alono- the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim 
sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 



On enterino- the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard, the eye, ranging through a dark vaulted passage, catches a distant 
view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong- 
glare thrown by a gas-light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural 
monument of one of the Pultneys. 







31+77-9 



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